


Your Wish Is Granted

by MarzgaPerez



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Disorder, Bodyswap, Carl Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich Friendship, Chapters 16 & 17 are a bit more "E", Dick worshipping at some point, Endgame Gallavich, Ian playing it cool, M/M, Omg - love that that’s a tag!, Prison, Slow Burn, Some Humor, season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 71,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22026652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarzgaPerez/pseuds/MarzgaPerez
Summary: The story begins in Season 6, right around E10, after Ian passes his EMT exam.This is a bodyswap fic, so it contains some magic (ala “Big” style), but I’ve picked a darker time in Gallavich canon, so the tone will be angsty at first.Not to worry though. I love our boys, and there will be some fun and growth and endgame Gallavich, so come along for the head fuck!
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 241
Kudos: 356





	1. Mickey

Something was very different that morning. A couple of things actually. The air in the 6x8 space wasn’t stale and confining. The mattress under Mickey’s back was oddly comfortable. The other breathing in the room was distinctly not his regular bunkmate’s. _Fuck, did they assign someone new to my cell in the middle of the night?_ Just when Mickey had gotten the last guy broken in.

As his eyelids slowly opened, he realized even the light seemed less artificial—softer and more natural. Before Mickey noticed anything else about his surroundings, he looked down and realized he was bare-chested. His eyes were playing tricks on him; gone was the tattoo over his heart, and the soft tufts of hair on his chest were tinted red. Same as the trail of hair that disappeared under the waistband of his plaid boxers. _Plaid?_ He hadn’t worn plaid boxers in months; they didn’t exist in the joint, not for prisoners anyway.

 _Too long in this place, I’m hallucinating shit._ Mickey felt around beside him for his undershirt—maybe he’d gotten hot during the night and taken it off. _Weird_. The sheets weren’t stiff but more like silk, and suddenly, his hand bumped up against a mound of warm flesh. It was in that moment when Mickey realized he was somewhere entirely different than the prison cell he’d called home for the past several months.

“What the fuck?! Where the fuck am I?!” A voice rising from his throat that did not sound like his own was yelling curses. The strange naked man he’d come in contact with just seconds ago had jumped out of the bed, bleary-eyed but positioned in some sort of defensive stance.

Mickey assumed a similar position on the other side of the bed and took a second to study his assailant—a well-endowed man with smooth brown skin, who was most definitely not his bunkmate, Paulie. But he didn’t look like any of the guards Mickey had come in contact with either.

“Who the fuck are you?!” He managed to shout, still not recognizing the sound of his own voice.

The man across from him, with his cock swinging back and forth like a pendulum, was saying a name. _That name._

“Ian! Ian! It’s Caleb. You must be having a nightmare.”

“The fuck did you call me?” Mickey was about to go full Jackie Chan on this fucker, except he’d have to pull some wild-ass move to get to him on the other side of the bed.

“Ian! You need to calm down. Now! Or I will restrain you,” threatened the extremely muscular and strangely calm, still very naked man. 

_That name_. He kept repeating it. Sure, the tattoo Mickey carved into his chest had healed over, but the sound of his ex-boyfriend’s name being hurled at him made his blood boil. He flung himself over the bed, lunging at the strange man with a blind rage. He had every intention of wrapping his fingers around this man’s neck until he choked out—because either this was a dream and his actions would have no real consequences, or he’d been kidnapped during the night and brought to this strange-ass building by this random fuck. So obviously, it would be okay to attack the guy. _Self-defense._

But this fucker had been ready for him, anticipating his erratic and barely calculated move. He somehow caught Mickey, pinned him to the floor with arms twisted behind him, his face forced against the cold, gray surface as a knee pressed into his back.

“Get the fuck off me!” he snarled.

“Shit! I’ve never seen you this bad,” was the response he got. “I’ll have to cuff you if you don’t calm down!”

Okay, maybe this _was_ one of the guards fucking with him? Whoever this piece of shit was, he was strong as fuck. And Mickey could not get his body to do what he wanted it to do—everything felt different. Was he going to have to play nice?

Seeing no alternative at the moment, Mickey stopped struggling, which made the guy release some of the pressure on his back—not enough to maneuver out from under him, but enough that he could lift his face off the ground. Chest heaving, he grunted, “Just tell me where the fuck I am...”

The man let out a long sigh. “This is bad. Are you off your meds or something, Ian?”

Mickey couldn’t take it anymore. “Quit fuckin’ calling me _that_!” He tried to get out of the hold and show this asshole what he thought of this charade when he felt the guy dragging him up and pulling him towards some other corner of the room, arms still pinned behind him, though he made it harder on the bastard by going limp, his entire frame dead weight now.

“Jesus,” the guy muttered. “I will kick your ass if you don’t cooperate.”

They came to a stop, the fucker managing to keep Mickey’s arms pinned behind his back with one hand while the other was suddenly gripping his chin, trying to get him to face forward. Mickey knew the guy wanted him to look at something, so he made sure to do anything but that.

“Ian, man. Open your eyes. It’s me, Caleb. Shit. This is not how I was expecting to spend my morning.”

The guy sounded kind of pissed, but it wasn’t his fucking fault that he’d picked Mickey to fuck with.

“You were so happy yesterday. C’mon, man. Look! Look in the mirror!”

Mirror? What did this freaky bastard want to do with him now? Mickey became keenly aware of the bare thigh pressed against him. _Aw, fuck it._ Might as well open his eyes and get a good look at this creep.

But the image in front of him couldn’t be real. What the fuck had Mickey taken yesterday? His pal Damon was always giving him new shit to try. Well, fuck whatever this was, making him conjure up the image of none other than his ex-boyfriend, Ian fucking Gallagher, staring back at him instead of his own reflection in the mirror. 

The man who called himself Caleb had loosened his grip on Mickey’s face and was mumbling something incoherent that Mickey was tuning out. Instead, he was focused on Ian’s face. The face that was burned into his brain, the one that he imagined most nights when he closed his eyes. Sometimes he pictured Ian smiling at him, asking to go again, the love in his eyes nearly blinding. Those were nights when Mickey needed a quiet pick-me-up, a fantasy to get lost in. But other times, the image of Ian staring back at him through the visitation booth, cold and despondent was all he could think about. He wanted to hate the bastard for tossing him aside like he’d meant nothing to him, especially after everything they’d been through. But he never got that far. Ian was a part of him. Hating Ian would have meant hating himself. 

The expression on the face staring back at him now was neither caring nor distant but confused, that fucking beautiful jawline clenched with worry, green eyes full of anger and hurt, and those same soft red hairs that Mickey had noticed on his own chest, were very noticeable against Ian’s smooth pale skin.

God, how many nights had Mickey pressed his head into his pillow and longed to be sleeping against his Ian’s warm, inviting body? How many nights had he imagined being wrapped in those familiar arms with a long leg draped over his thigh, completely comfortable being absorbed by this man and cherished by him? But all that felt like something out of a dream from long ago, and it was fading little by little over time.

Ian was watching him from the mirror, reading his every move, mimicking it. Was he being cruel? No, he was simply reflecting what Mickey wanted him to. _But how could this make sense?_ Mickey wondered. _How did this make any fucking sense?_

And that’s when he noticed the tears welling up in his eyes—Ian’s, too. Of course the kid would be crying, having to face the person he’d once fought tooth and nail to have in his life but then promptly forgot about. No letters, no calls, no visits.

“Ian,” he murmured, wanting to reach his hand out and stroke the redhead’s cheek like the goddamn pussy he was. This “Caleb” person still had a firm grip on his arms, eyes darting back between Mickey and Ian, seemingly unconvinced that he should let Mickey go.

“Yes. You’re Ian. Ian Gallagher. You just passed your EMT test yesterday. Remember? You worked your ass off for that.”

Mickey was so utterly confused by everything happening, he decided to play along with the guy, which seemed to soften him.

“Yeah...yeah, I remember...” 

How did this fucker know about Ian? None of this was making any goddamn sense, and Mickey was ready for it to be over. 

“Can you let me go now? _Please_?” He hated saying that word. “I’m feeling better now,” he managed in his most convincing voice, which still probably came out slightly threatening.

But Mickey could sense the guy backing down, and he seized the momentary lapse in this clown’s judgement to cold cock him. _Thump!_ And there he was, crumpled on the floor, mouth agape, still holding the tension of shock and surprise in his expression. Mickey thought about tying the guy up, but he was out cold. 

Assuming he could find a phone, Mickey definitely wasn’t calling the police. As long as he was off the grounds of the prison and not in some weird-ass hideaway, he was looking at the possibility of _freedom_. Now, he had to figure out how to get the hell out of there. 

The door at the front of the place was the obvious choice. Mickey took one last glance in the mirror, the tall-ass ginger still watching him, chest rising and falling rapidly. Mickey noticed Ian’s tattoo from the Army on his side and glanced down at his own chest, ready to retrace the letters he’d so painstakingly patterned. They still weren’t there, and he didn’t have time to question why, opting to locate some clothes before fleeing.

On a chair near the bed, he found a dark gray t-shirt that fit him perfectly, but the pair of pants next to it looked way too long. He felt around in the back pocket and pulled out a wallet and a cell phone. 

Mickey combed through the wallet, counting the cash and stopping briefly to examine the driver’s license.

**_Ian Clayton Gallagher_**

He held the card closer to his face, squinting and wishing the name and image away. But they remained the same, no matter how many times Mickey opened and closed his eyes. He threw it on the bed, his freckled hands visibly shaking, fingers that didn’t belong to him, too long and without his signature tattoos. This wasn’t happening. _No, no, no._ He just needed to snap out of whatever this was. 

Mickey swiped across the phone, and a passcode prompt came up. If this was— _no, it couldn’t be._ But if this was Ian’s phone, then maybe he still had the same code. _0810._

It worked. The home screen appeared. Who could Mickey call to help him? Iggy? Would he be at the Milkovich house this time of day? He’d definitely be willing to give Mickey a hard punch to the face so he’d snap out of this trance.

The call to his brother would have to wait, though—his captor was starting to groan and move around. Mickey put on the pants, and to his surprise, they fit him perfectly. So did the giant-ass shoes next to the bed.

He grabbed Ian’s license and stuffed the wallet and phone in his back pockets, approaching the door stealthily and peering out through the peephole at what appeared to be a carpeted hallway in an apartment building. 

Mickey took a deep breath and calmly exited the space, not wanting to raise suspicion from any passersby. He spotted an elevator and took it down to the first floor, the realization growing inside him that he was steps away from being a free man. He was unsure of how or why, and as he left the building to search for the nearest L station, Mickey was still wondering if this was some sort of a bad trip. _Fucking Damon._


	2. Ian

_The night before…_

Dinner at Carmadelles was delicious. Caleb always had the best taste in restaurants and was being really supportive of Ian’s new career as an EMT. _Shit_. This really was a big deal. Ian was going to have a job he cared about, something he’d worked for and made happen. No more busboy or janitorial gigs courtesy of his siblings’ pity. Or being coked out in shimmery gold booty shorts, giving hand jobs in the bathroom of the club for a few extra bucks.

Ian shuddered. Why did his mind have to go there? He was lucky to be clean after that phase in his life, including the riskier moments during his mania. Never again would he put himself or his partner in jeopardy like that again. 

_If only he could tell a certain someone the good news..._

Ian sighed and leaned his head back against the passenger seat of Caleb’s ride, glancing over at his boyfriend who was concentrating on finding the fairgrounds. Caleb didn’t seem overly thrilled about going to an amusement park, but Ian had insisted it would be romantic to ride the Ferris wheel together, and it was, after all, his night to celebrate.

Is this what stability was supposed to feel like? Ian knew he owed a lot of people gratitude for helping him get here, and try as he might, he could not repress a very strong desire to reach out to the one person who would be happy—would have been happy—no, probably _still_ would be happy for him.

 _Mickey._ What would his ex be doing right this minute? _Fuck._ Ian willed himself to think about something else, anything else, but it was pointless. When Mickey popped into his head, it was never for an instant. The guy would stay awhile, hunker down in Ian’s mind, bringing with him an aching and a longing that gripped Ian past the point of caring about anything else. Or anyone.

“You okay? You’ve been quiet since dinner,” noted Caleb, reaching over to pat Ian’s thigh. He nearly cringed at his touch, but stopped himself. It wasn’t fair to Caleb. 

Ian knew deep down that Caleb was not someone he wanted to be with long-term. There would always be someone else, no matter how many times he tried to tell himself otherwise. He felt it every fucking day. Sometimes for a few seconds, first thing in the morning, or at random moments during the day—mundane happenings, like someone mispronouncing his name at Starbucks (how hard was it to say _Ian?_ ) or changes that Ian had made, like taking his medications consistently for three months, or big things, like today. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking about dinner,” Ian lied. “My first time eating duck. Thanks.”

“Glad you enjoyed it. And don’t worry about not picking up the tab. You’ll be working in no time, and then you can take me out.” Caleb winked at him, which was his way of letting Ian know he didn’t mean any harm. Ian forced a small laugh before deciding to concentrate on helping Caleb get where they were going. 

The alternative was thinking about the past and Mickey, and the mess they’d made of things. Well, if he was being honest, the mess _Ian_ had made of things. Thank fuck they reached the fairgrounds before he went down that rabbit hole.

“Ready to rub shoulders with the dregs of society?” Caleb asked Ian while turning off the engine and looking skeptical about what was ahead of them. 

Yeah, this wasn’t really his boyfriend’s scene. Ian felt foolish for suggesting it, especially given that he’d always wanted to come with Mickey to the fair. But there was no turning back now. 

“It’ll be fun. You can win a prize for me, and we can eat something fried and disgusting,” Ian teased, knowing that Caleb wouldn’t let anything like greasy funnel cake into his “temple.”

What Ian had not anticipated was Caleb immediately running into a gaggle of young women he went to high school with. They whisked him away before Ian could protest. Caleb shrugged sheepishly and called out to Ian to meet him at the Ferris wheel in an hour.

 _Okay._ This was not exactly what Ian had in mind for the rest of their date. What was he supposed to do now? Ian wasn’t fond of being alone these days, afraid of where his thoughts might take him. He wanted to believe he was getting better—he needed to, before he would even consider subjecting a certain someone to his own brand of crazy again. Ian needed to prove to himself that he wasn’t going to turn into his mother, and he needed time to know for sure.

Finding an empty bench, he sat down for a minute to check his phone. Ian was waiting to hear from his family about his little sister, Debbie, since she was so close to her due date. No texts, no calls. He’d check in with everyone later.

 _Might as well do some people-watching,_ Ian decided. There were mostly groups of teenagers huddled together in droves, some families, and a few smaller children, some about Yevgeny’s age, he noted absentmindedly, realizing it had been months since he’d laid eyes on Mickey’s son. 

_Jesus, I fucked that relationship up, too._ Svetlana would probably spit on him if he came anywhere near Yev. He’d seen her a handful of times at the Alibi, and she let him have it for not going back to visit Mickey, saying he’d cut off all contact with her because he was done with anything that reminded him of his life with Ian. There had been that little slice of domesticity they’d all enjoyed, once upon a time. 

Ian got up from the bench, determined not to wallow in this sudden wave of nostalgia. He started towards a game booth, the sides outlined by gaudy, poorly-stitched jumbo stuffed animals hanging in bunches. With only about $10 on him, he’d have one shot to win a prize for Caleb. 

Just before he reached the game, which was the traditional tower of bottles he’d be able to knock over easily with his curveball, a flashing light caught his eye. He turned towards it and noticed a machine that resembled an arcade game. A few children were feeding money into it. The machine had marquee lights and the words “Your Fairy Godmother” in glowing blue letters. 

Ian groaned. He hated seeing the word “fairy” in bright lights after his stint at the Fairy Tail. But the animatronics on the matronly figure inside the box were pretty impressive. Ian couldn’t take his eyes off of the damn thing. He watched as the white-haired, plump figure leaned down and a voice came through the speakers to address the most recent supplier of quarters, “And what wish is in your heart today, dear?”

The pre-teen girl giggled into her hand and whispered something to a friend standing next to her. The fairy godmother waited the pre-programmed time before waving her wand and declaring in a sing-songy voice, “Your wish is granted.” At the same time, a puff of smoke was released inside the machine and filtered out through a vent on the front panel, simulating that some sort of magic had just transpired. 

It was hokey as fuck, but before Ian realized what was happening, a sister and brother duo—probably both younger than ten—had waved him forward to take his turn. Ian shook his head at first, on the cusp of explaining he wasn’t in line, but then decided he had a spare ten seconds to be entertained. Besides, the fake cloud of smoke smelled like cotton candy, and it put him in a good mood.

After inserting four quarters into the machine, Ian looked over his shoulder and briefly smiled at the sister and brother duo. The older sibling had her hand resting on her brother’s shoulder, almost protectively, and it reminded Ian of how the Gallagher siblings watched over each other.

He turned his focus back to the machine, waiting for the kind-looking fairy godmother to begin her melodious humming before leaning down and uttering her famous phrase, “And what wish is in your heart today, dear?”

Ian laughed and muttered something lame about a kiss from his boyfriend atop the Ferris wheel—it was the best he could come up with on the spur of the moment. He waited for the figure to wave her wand and anoint him with the sweet-smelling smoke, but instead, she leaned down and whispered, “What wish is _actually_ in your heart today, dear?”

Ian was speechless, afraid to look back at the others who were gathered and waiting for their turns. Was this a glitch or some random programming to create variety with the experience? The fairy godmother, plastic but somehow life-like, seemed impatient with him, like she wanted to beat him over the head with the wand instead of waving it merrily. His mind was racing, but from somewhere inside of him, the words he’d been afraid to say—or even think—came pouring out. “I want to be with _him_! I need to know what he’s doing, how he’s feeling, if he’s alright. There. I said it.”

Ian didn’t dare turn around now, figuring that most everyone had heard his sad little outburst. This time, the fairy godmother offered him an encouraging smile, or as close to one as the robotics behind her facial expression would allow. “Much better. Your wish is granted,” she stated, waiving her wand and then disappearing in a cloud of smoke. The cotton candy smoke poured out of the vent, but it didn’t smell as sweet this time. 

Ian jumped back as blue sparks fired from the cord where the machine was plugged in. He backed away and urged the others standing close by to do the same. The sister and brother duo pointed and shouted as the machine appeared to short-circuit, and the lights in the surrounding booths flickered.

“Guys, stay away from that thing, okay?” Ian urged the pair.

“What did you wish for anyway, Mister?” asked the older girl.

“Well, it’s complicated. I was—”

“You broke it!” wailed the little brother.

“Yeah...uh…sorry...”

There was still smoke wafting out of the machine. Ian glanced around for the nearest employee and reported the incident. Too bad Caleb wasn’t around to check things out and eliminate the danger. He felt obligated to hang around and discourage people from using the machine until someone came around with the appropriate fire extinguisher and an “Out of Order” sign, which they eventually did. Afterwards, Ian made his way over to the Ferris wheel, and the large-ass stuffed animal that he’d intended to win for Caleb remained in the bunch with the others of its kind.

When Ian spotted Caleb through the crowd, he waved and brushed away an errant tear that had settled at the corner of his eye, probably from the smoke getting in his eyes. He opted not to tell Caleb about his experience with the Fairy Godmother machine, nor did he bother tipping the Ferris wheel operator a couple of bucks to have their seat pause at the very top. Instead, he listened with feigned interest as Caleb described all of the women who’d held him hostage, most of whom had been cheerleaders and, according to Caleb, total sluts. 

After the Ferris wheel, they bought lemonade and each took a turn at the high striker, Caleb getting all the way to the top. His prize was a medium-sized stuffed Chihuahua, which he named “Fuego” and promptly gifted to Ian. After sharing a funnel cake, which Caleb had one bite of, Ian admitted to feeling extra tired and suggested they call it a night. 

So much so, when they got back to Caleb’s apartment, he barely had the strength to pull his shirt and pants off. He knew Caleb would want to have sex before they fell asleep, like he did most nights, but it wasn’t happening. As Ian drifted off to sleep, he was fairly certain that Caleb got up to masturbate in the bathroom. 

And then Ian had the strangest dream...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope to update this at least weekly.


	3. Mickey

Iggy’s cell phone was out of range, and no one was answering at the Milkovich house. Mickey wasn’t going to chance being picked up at his house, nor was he in the mood to see Terry. Hopefully, the asshole was out of town on a run.

During Mickey’s first week in prison, he’d learned that Terry had been transferred to another facility due to overcrowding, but released a few weeks later. Mickey stayed in contact with his siblings, but everyone, even Mandy, knew not to bring up two individuals in particular. So he knew very little about his father’s whereabouts—nor did he care. And he knew even less about Ian—someone he still cared very much about, despite his attempts not to. 

As a matter of fact, his first instinct had been to take the L over to Wallace Street to find Ian, but that was probably the second place where the cops would come looking for him. Besides, Mickey now had what he figured was a decent gash on his forehead—the result of him not paying attention when he got on the L and slamming his head against the train’s entrance. That, in and of itself, was odd because he’d been on the L a million times before, and that had never happened.

Despite the evidence literally smacking him in the face, Mickey had yet to fully accept his new reality. _This can’t be happening,_ he told himself over and over again, fists clenched in his lap and still missing the finger tattoos that gave him more confidence than anyone would ever know. It was a matter of doing the fucking up or being the one who was getting fucked up, and Mickey had made the commitment a long time ago to the former. 

He’d spent years building unbreakable walls around him, and Ian was the one person who’d found a weakness in the structure and gotten through to the other side. And all Mickey wanted was to rebuild those walls with both of them on the inside. He wanted to keep Ian safe and protect him from anything or anyone who tried to hurt him—be it geriatric hard-up pervs, his struggles with being bipolar, or his nutjob of a half sister. Mickey could never imagine he was one of those things, not after he’d built that castle and fortified it for the two of them to live happily ever after in. Or at least for a very long time.

But now things were over between them—maybe not for good but for a long time—mostly due to forces outside of their control. _Eight to fifteen years._ It could have been less, had Mickey felt like he had a reason to fight. But once he was sure Ian had given up on him, Mickey followed suit.

So what the fuck was the universe doing to him right now? Why was his mind playing this cruel trick? The one other person who might be able to knock him back to his senses was his bitch of an ex-wife. He’d signed the paperwork recently, and they’d made it official. The matter of custody of Yev was still unresolved, but there was fuck little Mickey could do for him in prison. 

And even though he was happy to be free from the old ball and chain, Mickey needed her help and hoped for fuck’s sake she was working that morning at the Alibi. Maybe she could set things straight.

^^^^^^^^^^

 _The Alibi._ Mickey hadn’t expected to lay eyes on that shitty dump for awhile. He pushed through the entrance door, keeping his eyes down. If he was thinking more clearly, he’d have gone in the back way so as not to be spotted.

As it were, none of the scattered patrons in the place had much of a reaction when he came inside. He headed straight to the bar as Svetlana approached him, and he braced himself for whatever shit-talking she was about to lay on him.

“Carrot top is here. Alert the media!” She rolled her eyes and declared to no one in particular who was seated at the bar.

“Need to talk to you,” he muttered. “In private.”

Her arms were crossed over her chest. “Freckle face has balls now? I have work.”

“It’ll just take a second.” Why was she always so fucking difficult? Didn’t she realize how dire the circumstances were?

“Fine. Over here,” she nodded her head towards the pool table, and he headed over to meet her.

Hands on hips, she glowered at him. “What? You want time with Yev? Now that me and piece of shit husband are no more?”

“No, not that. How is the kid, anyway?”

“He’s fine. Better now. Just with me. And them.” Svetlana waved her hand towards Kev and V, who had emerged from the back and were now wearing quizzical expressions.

“Yeah, sure. We can talk about Yev later, but I gotta ask you something else.”

“What? Spit it out. I’m busy.”

Mickey bit into his lower lip. _How the fuck do I ask this?_

“Uh, Svet...what do you see? When you look at me? Like _who_?”

Svetlana cackled. “I see idiot ginger boy, wasting my time.”

“Goddammit, really look at me!” he yelled at her and grabbed her wrist to pull her closer.

She was silent, staring into his eyes, finally concentrating, like he’d demanded. He was sure Svetlana could see him. That look of annoyance and disgust was one she typically reserved just for him. _Thank fuck, maybe there was hope after all._

“What do I see? Hmmm. I see...” she began, “even bigger idiot ginger boy who I will cut the next time he talks to me like dog.” Svetlana shoved him away and returned to her spot behind the bar in a huff, mumbling something in Russian.

 _Fuuuuuuuck_. Everything was a blur in front of him. Mickey managed to find his way over to the bar and struggled to pull the barstool out, feeling weak in the knees. Kev passed behind Svetlana with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a shot glass in the other.

“You okay, Ian? You’re bleeding.”

“Yeah, I know.” Mickey picked up a napkin from the pile and pressed it against his forehead.

“Long night, huh? Good news about Debbie, though.” Kev set the shot glass in front of Mickey and filled it.

“Who?” Mickey asked, draining the shot and slamming the glass back on the counter.

“Uh, your sister? She had the baby last night,” Kev said cautiously, refilling the shot glass. “V said you weren’t around.”

“Naw, man. Had stuff to do.” Mickey didn’t really feel like making small talk with Kevin, considering everything that was going on. He realized he needed to take a piss and then eat something. Maybe food would do him some good.

“Hit me with some eggs and Tabasco sauce, Kev. I’ll be right back.”

“Uh, Ian? You sure? That’s not usually _your_ breakfast of choice, sounds more like what—”

Just then, V sidled over and elbowed Kevin in the side. “Morning, Ian. Go on to the bathroom, baby. When you come back, I’ll clean up that cut and tell you all about your new niece.”

Mickey barely nodded before heading to the restroom and pulling his dick out to take a leak.

He looked down and did a double take. And there it was—all nine inches. No wonder he’d been walking funny and having trouble getting comfortable when he tried to sit down. That thing was a python compared to his grass snake of a dick.

Seeing that cock—Ian’s cock—was the straw that broke the camel’s back. It finally hit him. Through some force of nature or witchcraft, Mickey had inhabited the body of Ian Gallagher, and no one else had a damn clue. 

_If this isn’t a dream and I’m really inside of Ian, that means I’m a free man, and Ian’s the one who…_

_So I could skip town or pretty much do whatever the fuck I want, and Ian would be…_

These truths were hitting Mickey hard, and bits of pieces from the morning were lining up. That Caleb dude must be Ian’s fuckbuddy. Or maybe his boyfriend—he mentioned something about Ian being off his meds, so he must be fairly involved in his life. Was Ian living with the guy? Firecrotch hadn’t wasted any time.

A few months ago, Mickey would have punched the wall from learning this piece of information. Now it hit him in the gut like a swift kick, bringing with it a longing and a sadness that would have knocked him down, but under the circumstances, there wasn’t time for any of that.

Mickey walked over to the sink to wash his hands, and he was met with his brand new reflection. He couldn’t resist pressing the pads of his fingers over Ian’s nose and cheeks, moving them over his lips, lips that had roamed every inch of his body, lips that Mickey had allowed in places where no other had gone, driving him to the brink of insanity. Lips that had whispered loving words in his ears, lips that had eventually betrayed him. 

Pulling his hands back to his side, Mickey stepped back to take in more of the view. There was no doubt about it—Ian’s body was his current vessel, pale-ass freckled skin, gangly arms that were actually starting to look ripped. Leave it to Ian to get even more fucking gorgeous. His hair was shorter than the last time he’d laid eyes on the redhead. 

Mickey chuckled at the thought of the full access he now had to this goddamn body, a body he would have gotten down on his knees to worship at one point in time. And the person in it. He’d have to let V clean up his wound. Ian wouldn’t be happy if he returned his body to him scarred.

Mickey’s eyes—now a brilliant green color—widened, his mouth agape. _Shit, does this mean Gallagher’s taken up residence in the broken-down Milkovich model? Poor bastard._ Prison would fucking destroy Ian. Mickey tried to picture him, cowering in the yard with all of the heavy-hitters, way out of his league. 

Even with the armor of a shit-talking, pit bull Milkovich, Ian would still be a frantic puppy dog on the inside, who may or may not have been taking his meds. And if he had woken up that morning as fucked-for-life Mickey Milkovich, he sure as hell needed his meds if he had any hope of surviving whatever the fuck this was.

A voice inside of Mickey’s head, strangely resembling that of his father, scolded him. 

_You stupid, fucking pussy. Why do you give two shits about that Gallagher kid? You’re free. Run! Run as far away from him as possible—same as he did to you. It’s not your fault he’s in there, and you’re out here. Fuck him!_

Mickey stared back at his reflection, the image of the man he still carried a torch for eyeing him curiously. But he knew what he had to do, dismissing the cynical voice that was urging him to put himself first. This wasn’t Ian’s fault. He didn’t roofie Sammi or let his defense team take the weakest plea bargain in the history of plea bargains. He hadn’t committed a crime that warranted being locked away from his family and his freedom. Fuck, come to think of it, neither had Mickey, but that hadn’t stopped him from being royally fucked by the courts. 

Mickey’s feelings over losing Ian had varied between anger, resentment, bitterness, sadness, and round and round and back to every single one. He blamed himself for being weak and giving a fuck in the first place, he blamed Ian and his bipolar and his stupid fucking mother for getting in his head. In a moment of total weakness, he pleaded with his maker to understand why all of this was happening,but this was something different now. 

Mickey at least needed to know if this thing was happening to Ian, too, and find a way to fix it if it was. Even if he was hallucinating or trapped in a fucking dream world, it wasn’t in Mickey to let Ian suffer.

He pulled Ian’s cell phone out of his back pocket to check for any calls or texts. There were messages from Fiona and Lip about Debbie’s baby. _Shit,_ and three missed calls from Caleb. Yeah, that fucker wasn’t going to be hearing from Ian for a while.

If Ian was experiencing this new altered reality too, surely he would try to call his own cell phone, but it wouldn’t be until after lunch time when phone privileges started. Mickey wasn’t sure Ian would make it that long. He thought about getting a ride up to the prison, but no fucking way they would give him any information, and there were no visiting hours on Tuesdays. 

He could go up tomorrow, though, he decided. Thank fuck he hadn’t removed Ian from his list of visitors. Worst case scenario, he couldn’t connect with him until the following day. Best case scenario, Ian would try to get in touch with him via phone as soon as he could. And Mickey was gonna need to find someone he could confide in about all of this. A couple of people came to mind. One in particular.

Mickey burst out of the restroom door and headed straight to the bar where a bowl of hard boiled eggs and a bottle of Tabasco sauce was waiting for him. He called over to Kevin, “Hey, man! Can I get this to go?”


	4. Ian

Ever since they’d parted ways, Mickey had been haunting Ian’s dreams. Some of his dreams were recognizable memories—happy moments they’d shared, simple things like falling asleep together in bed or cooking breakfast in the Gallagher kitchen. Ian would wake up with a big stupid grin plastered all over his face, and Caleb would ask him what he’d been dreaming about that made him smile so wide.

On occasion, Ian dreamed about his final visit with Mickey in prison, which quickly turned into sweat-induced nightmares. Mickey would pound on the glass and call him a coward. The guards would haul Mickey away, but he’d tried to fight them off, only to wind up on the floor, handcuffed, still shouting Ian’s name and cursing the day he ever gave him a second thought. 

Ian had hated seeing Mickey behind the glass, like a fucking lab rat, hated himself for having nothing left to give the man who’d been there for him when any other sane person would have bailed. He never could decide if Mickey was better off in actual prison or being bound to him and his illness, which was a different kind of prison that would eventually weigh Mickey down in more erratic, unpredictable and dangerous ways than he could ever imagine. In the end, Ian supposed he was being selfish either way—selfish to stay out of his life, selfish to stay in it. Ian was the one who had the freedom to choose, and Mickey didn’t, which made him the bad guy.

But this night was the first time Ian had dreamed that _he_ was the one in prison. And on the visitor’s side of the glass sat Mickey, quiet and brooding. Somewhere deep in his subconscious, Ian knew this was a dream, but rather than rousing himself from it, he decided to let it play out. 

For most of the dream, they were silent. Mickey was staring back at him vacantly while Ian implored him with his eyes to say something, anything. Mickey glanced at his watch, which was odd because Ian had never seen him wear one before, and then finally spoke. He said something into the phone that sounded like, “Why, Ian? Why did you do this to us?” The buzzer rang, signaling the end of the visit, and there were hands on Ian’s shoulders, jerking him away from the glass as Mickey was trying to tell him something. It seemed like something important.

“Yo! Wake the fuck up!” shouted an unfamiliar voice. 

“Caleb?” Ian said weakly, shielding his eyes from bright fluorescent lights. “Why is your alarm so loud today?”

“What the fuck are you on?” responded the voice in a thick New York accent. “Get up!” it commanded.

Ian felt something soft hit his face, and realized whatever it was reeked. He rolled over in the bed and nearly fell out onto what looked like the same faded linoleum floor from his middle school days. A pair of socks dropped onto the floor next to him, joining a pile of clothes strewn about. 

“You’re a fucking slob, Milk. The guards will have our asses if we don’t get this place in order.” There was a strange man hovering a few feet away, arms crossed and foot tapping the floor impatiently.

 _What the fuck is going on? Am I still dreaming?_ Ian rubbed his hands over his eyes, hoping to wake himself up fully and reset whatever scene he’d mistakenly woken up into. This was definitely not Caleb’s off-beat industrial-style apartment, where he was a hundred percent certain he’d gone to bed. They’d had a nice dinner, spent some time at the fair, and crashed at Caleb’s place. There had been no shenanigans that would have led to Ian being anywhere else.

“You just gonna lay there, man? We got breakfast soon.”

Ian sat up and opened his eyes, wide, for the first time and took in his surroundings, which included a steel commode and a small sink directly in front of him. Other than the random pile of clothes at his feet, the tiny room was bare. This had to be some kind of cell. 

He looked down at his lap and noticed he was clad in an orange jumpsuit, the same one he’d been wearing in his dream. Nervously, he smoothed the rumpled fabric and had a sudden urge to stretch his limbs, like he needed to break through the walls of a cardboard box he was trapped inside of. 

Then Ian spotted something noticeably different about his hands. _Why is there ink on my fingers?_ Upon further inspection, he realized that the letters and words the tattoos formed together were very familiar—they just didn’t belong on him. 

“Holy fuck!” Ian shouted, springing from his bunk and launching himself towards the small mirror above the sink. Ordinarily, he’d have to crouch down to get a look at this face in a mirror that low, but there was no need in his current state.

Crystal blue eyes and raised dark-brown eyebrows framed his stunned expression. He pawed at the skin on his face, ruffled the dark hair atop his head, and let his hands trail down the sides of his body, one hand hovering briefly over his crotch and the other over his much rounder ass. Once more, he inspected his hands, blinking rapidly, palms down, and tracing the letters with his eyes.

“Where the fuck—what the fuck—” Ian retreated to his bunk, scooting all the way back to the wall, the shadow from the top bunk giving him the slightest bit of protection as the unidentifed man continued staring at him like he’d lost his goddamn mind.

“Milkman, seriously? What the fuck did Damon give you last night?”

 _Milkman. Milkman. Did he mean Milkovich? Mickey Milkovich?_ Ian was unable to form any words, distracted by muddled thoughts and pieces of questions rattling around inside his head. 

None of this made any damn sense. He’d been taking his meds regularly— _hadn’t he?_ His body had gotten used to the side effects. Maybe he should just wait until the hallucination subsided, and he could go on with his day. Ian remembered he needed to call about scheduling a final interview with the EMT squad leader. Out of habit, he patted his side, feeling around for his phone, but it wasn’t there.

Another buzzer sounded, just like the one he’d woken up to. The man who’d been inside the cell with him squared up with the door as it opened automatically. Ian remained motionless on the bed, unsure if he should stay put or play along with this charade. The older man let him know it would be wise to do the latter. 

“Get the fuck up, or they’ll give you a shot. Two more, and you’re looking at a night in the Hole.”

Whatever “the Hole” was, it didn’t sound like anything Ian wanted to experience. He looked around for the socks the man had tossed at him earlier, scrambling to put them on and pushing his feet into the small pair of boots next to the bed. Better to go along with things until he could wrap his mind around what the fuck was happening.

“I’m not feeling well,” Ian muttered, hearing for the first time that his voice sounded deeper and definitely not his own. “Something’s not right.”

“Yeah, no shit. Gotta ask Damon at breakfast. I keep telling your dumb asses not to test the merchandise.”

“Merchandise? What are you—”

“Shhhhhhhhh,” the man hissed at him before taking his place in the line forming outside their door. Ian followed behind, a feeling of total and utter panic rising up inside of him as he realized what was outside their door—rows of other doors that appeared to lead to other cells. This was a fucking prison! 

And along with the multiple cells, there were lines of men in various shapes and sizes with only their orange jumpsuits in common. Oh, and the fact that were all probably violent criminals. 

Ian’s lips began to tremble, sweat forming on his brow as he marched behind the man he now assumed was his cellmate. _Why? Why was he in this place? And why did he see Mickey Milkovich staring back at him in the glass panels that he passed along the way to wherever the fuck they were being led?_

Sure, during the many times he’d think about Mickey or dream about him, Ian would wonder what Mickey’s life was like behind bars, but not enough to end up in here with him. _With him._

The realization of what was happening hit Ian all at once, causing him to stop abruptly. He doubled over, feeling like he’d had the wind knocked out of him, as the prisoner behind him cursed and pushed Ian forward into his cellmate.

“Jesus, Milk! Watch out!”

“S-sorry,” he muttered, straightening his back and returning to a more normal gait, though his strides seemed different, his legs shorter now. Ian replayed the words he’d blurted out at the fair the night before, when he couldn’t get Mickey out of his brain.

_I want to be with him! I need to know what he’s doing, how he’s feeling, if he’s alright._

Sure, he’d said those words, he’d meant them, he’d hoped in his heart of hearts that Mickey was okay, but he hadn’t imagined, not in a million years, that he could wish for something like this, and it would come true. This was a thing of fantasy, science fiction, and there was no fucking way it could be real. 

Why was his fucked-up mind playing tricks on him like this? Why now? Why after finally starting to get his life back on track? Was this some kind of test?

As they entered what looked like a cafeteria, the voices of the other prisoners grew louder as more of them converged into the confined space. Ian wanted to find a quiet corner to wait this out, but aside from the prisoners, there were armed guards scattered around, trying to maintain order. He knew enough not to make eye contact with anyone as he tried to mask the shock that was gripping his insides. Taking a deep breath, Ian tried to steady his nerves and follow along with what the rest of the crowd was doing.

Before long, he was near the front of a line where he saw inmates retrieving trays of food. Ian began to feel light-headed and stumbled backwards, coming out of his haze when a strong hand patted his shoulder.

“You alright, Mickey?” This voice was different from his cellmate, smooth with a slight Spanish accent, and Ian turned around to a half-crooked smile from a man slightly taller and muscular, with light brown skin.

“Wait. Did you call me...Mickey?” 

“Fuck yeah, that’s your name, _ese_ ,” replied the man, furrowing his brow and shoving Ian forward. “Your turn.”

Ian nodded absent-mindedly as he moved to pick up the tray of food—if you could call it that.

_Okay, sure. I’ll play along. What else can I do? I’m probably imagining this entire thing, but if I’m in here, if I’m in prison, where the fuck is Mickey? He’s got to be...out there, in my body. I’m him...and he’s...me!_

Your wish is granted.


	5. Mickey

That porch. _That goddamn porch._ Mickey had no desire to see it again, no desire to remember what happened the last time he schlepped his ass over to Ian’s house, like his whole fucking world had been riding on that call from his boyfriend who’d run off somewhere unknown with his out-of-control mother. 

It was almost nine months ago that Mickey had arrived at the Gallagher house breathless and relieved to find Ian in one piece. He had no idea Ian was about to dump his ass and that crazy-ass Sammi would soon be coming after him with a loaded gun. Fuck her and her bad aim, though he wasn’t complaining about not getting shot. On second thought, maybe that would have helped his case? And maybe Ian would have given a damn about the possibility of losing him if he was down on the ground, blood pouring out of him. 

_Fuck it_. Mickey told himself he wasn’t going to do that anymore, wasn’t going to let the “what if’s” get to him, wasn’t going to hold onto things that weren’t going to be. Except these were some really fucking interesting circumstances if the universe was trying to keep him and Ian apart.

Was it possible that even Ian himself had something to do with this. But how? And why? Why would anyone want to trade places with someone in prison? Ian would be lucky to survive a day in that place, which made Mickey worry less about what had happened between them that fateful day from months ago and more about figuring out what to do next.

He breezed up the stairs to the Gallagher front door and pushed inside. Just like always, they kept the place unlocked—there was nothing worth stealing and if there had been, Frank would have stolen it. And everyone in the neighborhood knew that already.

The bottom part of the house was quiet, and he listened for any signs of life. It hit Mickey like a ton of bricks that part of him was expecting a certain redhead to come bounding down the stairs to greet him. It also occurred to Mickey that he was a free man again, and this was how he was choosing to spend his time. Why didn’t he at least grab a forty on the way over? Drinking was something he severely missed, and it actually made a lot of sense, considering his current circumstances. 

Mickey heard the sound of a baby crying from upstairs and the creaking of floorboards above him. Someone was there, and if he had to guess, it was probably Debbie, remembering what Kevin and V had said about her having a baby.

But she wasn’t the Gallagher he was looking for. He thought about coming back later in the day, tiptoeing outside and going for a juicy burger at his favorite diner, but there was something about that crying baby that carried him up the stairs instead of out the front door. 

“Hey!” he called out to keep from scaring the shit out of Debbie.

No luck. She jumped at the sound of his voice, though it was Ian’s, still cradling the wailing baby but looking absolutely surprised to see anyone else in the house and generally out of her fucking mind. Her hair was a damn mess, and she was walking like a dude who’d just been kicked in the nutsack. 

“Ian,” she sighed. “Thank fuck it’s you and not Fiona. That bitch is not getting anywhere near my baby. Here. Take her. Take Franny. And don’t say anything about her name. I need a minute.”

“Wait? W-what? No, I don’t want to hold your—” She practically shoved the baby in his arms as she hobbled towards the bathroom. Mickey had to quickly remember what Ian had told him about holding newborns. Yev was probably closer to a month old by the time Mickey actually held him, but he knew to support the damn thing’s neck. And this was probably the tiniest baby he’d ever held. 

“Just gimme a sec!” Debbie called out from behind the door. 

Mickey was not thrilled about this situation. The baby had a major set of lungs, and he was clearly not the nurturing kind. He tried rocking her, but she continued to scream, and he got flustered. “Yo, Peppermint Patty, hurry the fuck up!”

He could hear the toilet flush and the water in the sink running before Debbie popped her head out. “Jesus, Ian. I thought you’d be able to handle this shit. Aren’t you going to be an EMT?” She took the squalling baby from him and pulled her tank top down to shove her boob into the baby’s mouth. 

“Oh, fuck!” Mickey cringed, looking the other way, but at least the baby quieted down. 

“Really? If you’re just gonna make stupid remarks, and act like breast feeding is disgusting, you can just get the fuck—”

“Sorry! Chill, alright? I’m not used to all of this—noise.”

“Why the hell not?” she asked, walking back to her room, and Mickey felt compelled to follow her. “You’re a Gallagher, even took care of me when I was little.”

“Don’t remember any of that,” Mickey huffed, annoyed with this chatter, arms crossed as he stood in the doorway. “Where’s the rest of Frank’s spawn anyway?”

Debbie rolled her eyes like the answer was obvious. “Fiona’s probably at work, and Lip had a class. Carl and Liam are in school. Why are you acting weird, Ian?”

“I’m not,” he shot back, rather unconvincingly. Well, of course, _Ian_ was acting weird because he wasn’t Ian. But Debbie didn’t need to know that. She wouldn’t be able to help him out anyway, not with this new responsibility. 

She shrugged and gently repositioned her baby from one boob to the other. Mickey reminded himself to keep his trap shut, but he’d never found breasts all that appealing and even less so when he thought about them as a source of food. 

“No offense, but why are you here? Thought you moved in with your firefighter boyfriend.”

“We’re taking a break,” Mickey replied through gritted teeth and rolled his eyes. _Firefighter boyfriend._ “Anyway, speaking of boyfriends or whatever…”

“Yeah?”

“Need to know if, uh...Mickey’s tried to get in touch with any of you.” _There, he’d said it._ And now he was bracing himself for her reaction.

“Mickey? Like, Mickey _Mickey_? Your Mickey? Well, formerly...” 

_Okay, that wasn’t too bad._ He was expecting more sarcasm, maybe a look of disgust, but Debbie just seemed surprised. 

“Yeah, him.”

“I thought you guys were done. Why would he contact us?”

 _Right. Done. Why did he even bother asking?_ “Oh, uh...just wondering. Guess I’ll take off.” Mickey figured he had some time to kill and could go for that burger after all, since he was pretty much having to wait around for Ian to give him a call, and everyone else wouldn’t be back for a few hours. 

“I’m starving! Make me a sandwich first?” Debbie half asked, half told him. 

_Where did this chick get off?_ It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her “fuck no,” but realizing he needed to play the role of Ian for now, Mickey decided to give in.

“Fine. I’ll make you something, but I ain’t cutting the crusts off or nothing.”

“Okay…” Debbie shot him a puzzled look before turning her attention back to the baby.

Mickey followed a familiar route downstairs to the kitchen, realizing that this had once been the place he called home. It was strange being there without Ian;he felt like an intruder. His thoughts turned to the redhead, figuring if he hadn’t gone off the deep end after waking up in a prison cell in a much smaller and stockybody, he’d be on work duty by now and heading to lunch soon. 

_Fuck, maybe I should go up there. Ian’s gotta be losing his mind._ But Mickey knew there was nothing he’d be able to do, not being a relative, and it’s not like anyone would give a damn if an inmate started going nuts; they’d just put him in the psych unit. _That would destroy the guy._

Mickey was suddenly struck by the gravity of the situation and had to steady himself against the kitchen counter, his longer than normal fingers curled into tight fists at his sides. 

How could this be happening, and why now? All signs pointed to Ian having moved on with his life, and though Mickey wouldn’t consider himself “over” Ian by any stretch of the imagination, he’d had moderate success as a dealer and had a couple of guys he would consider friends on the inside. So what was the point of disrupting both of their goddamn lives with this bullshit?

A shrill voice called out the name “Ian” a few times, and then, “My sandwich?!” It was all Mickey could do not to cuss that demanding bitch out, but he took two deep breaths before yelling back, “Be there in a minute. Hold your tits!”

Better to occupy his time with something simple, like raiding the Gallagher fridge, which he considered pretty well-stocked, compared to the only consistent item housed in the Milkovich refrigerator—a block of moldy government-issued cheese. He found enough bread, cold cuts, cheese, lettuce, and mayo for two decent sandwiches, one for Peppermint Patty and one for himself, which he gobbled down and chased with a cold beer, the first he’d had in months. It tasted so fucking good, like freedom, so he had another and then another and ended up dozing off on the couch in the Gallagher living room, despite the sounds of a crying baby coming from upstairs. He’d remembered to place Ian’s cell phone next to his ear with the volume turned up, hoping to hear from Ian, or should he say... _Mickey_?

It must have been an hour or so later when the phone rang, startling Mickey awake, as he fumbled to check the number—Caller Unknown, that was a good sign—and answer the phone. A robotic voice came on the line.

_“You have a collect call from inmate 4242, Mikhailo Milkovich. To accept the charges, press ‘1’ now.”_

Mickey hit the “1” on the keypad, his fingers trembling and his heart racing. Maybe this was going to be the end of this altered reality—he’d hear his own voice and be transported back to his own body, and all of this would be some strange dream that maybe he’d tell Ian about one day.

“Uh...hello?”

“Hey.”

“Mick? Is that you? Can you hear me?”

It was the sound of his own voice coming through the line, but at the same time, it wasn’t. And never would Mickey have figured in a million years that these would be the circumstances that led them to talking again.

“Yeah,” he managed over the lump in his throat. “Ian?”

“It’s me.” He sounded completely dejected, even more drained of life than the last time Mickey had talked to him through the glass.

“Was gonna ask if you’re okay. Think I know the answer.”

Ian was quiet for a few seconds. “Guess I’m not imagining things after all...”

“What the fuck is going on?” Mickey asked, trying to keep his voice calm but still bewildered from everything that had happened so far. Now he had confirmation that he wasn’t the only one. This was really happening.

“It’s my fault,” replied Ian, his breathing shaky, and Mickey could sense he was on the verge of tears. He could picture Ian in that orange jumpsuit, shoulders tensing up as he pressed the phone against the side of his face, fist resting on the wall. The other nosy-ass inmates would be studying his every move, and it was Mickey they were seeing—not Ian.

“You gotta chill out, man,” Mickey said through gritted teeth, wanting to reach through the phone and steady Ian.

“B-but Mick, I did this! I fucking wished this shit on us!”

 _Fuck._ Ian was going to have a big-ass target on his back, breaking out into hysterics like this in front of everyone. “Ian! Quit fuckin’ blubbering. For fuck’s sake! You’re not you, you’re me!”

He didn’t respond but seemed to be taking deep breaths and trying to compose himself.

“Ian? Say something.”

“Fuck, Mick.” Ian sighed, his voice trembling. “I’ll be climbing the walls in a few days without my meds. God, I’m such an idiot.”

Mickey found himself panicking for the guy. It didn’t matter how much Ian had progressed since he’d last seen him—this would throw anyone off balance, but especially someone dealing with a mental illness.

“Look, Ian. We don’t have all day. Find Carter. Block D. Tell him exactly what you need from the infirmary. Tell him to put your diagnosis in my chart. He owes me one.”

“W-what?”

“Need you to listen. Are you listening?”

“Yeah, I heard you, but I—”

“And Paulie—he’s my cell mate. You met him, right?”

“Yeah...yeah, of course.”

“Good. Tell him that your grandma died, so you’re going through some shit. Mickey Milkovich ain’t the crying type, but he loved his dead grandma. Use that as a cover story until we can talk again. People will notice a difference in how you’re acting. You gotta be careful.”

There was only silence on the other end of the line.

“Ian?!”

“What?”

“We’ll get you out of there. I promise, just hang in there. Okay?”

“Mick, I don’t deserve your help,” he answered weakly. “Just let me fucking rot in here. It’s what I did to you.”

“Hey! There’s no time for that. I made my choices and you made yours. We’ll get to that later, but you need to do the things I said. Got it?”

“O-okay.”

“I’m coming to see you tomorrow. Just lay low.”

“Mick. Don’t come here.”

“The fuck you gonna do to stop me?! You’re still on my visitor’s list, and I better see your ass. Don’t fuck around. Ian?!”

“Yeah?”

“You gotta start thinking and acting like a Milkovich. If you get your ass beat in there, that’s _my_ ass. So either pull yourself together for your own sake, or do it for me!”

Then the call cut off.


	6. Ian

The line went dead and Ian felt the presence of a hulking inmate next to him, breath warm and rotten-smelling as he snarled through crooked teeth. “Time’s up.”

Ian looked at the man defiantly. Mickey was right—he had a reputation to maintain as a Milkovich. As fucked up as everything was, Ian had to believe that he could get through the next hour and the one after that and so on, until they could figure this out.

“Fuck you!” Ian shouted, summoning his best Mickey impression from somewhere deep inside and slamming the receiver into its cradle, so hard that it bounced back out and clanged against the wall. He walked away, glaring straight ahead, daring anyone, including the idiot guard who was just standing there, to say something to him.

But that kind of bravado only got Ian back to his cell, eyes red and mind clouded over with the stunning realization that all of this was as real as real could be. He dropped down onto his bunk and stared at the cement wall for what could have been minutes or even hours. Truth be told, Ian didn’t know where he was supposed to be at the moment, and he didn’t really give a fuck if he got in trouble. 

Hearing Mickey’s voice for the first time in months, even though it was through his own voice, hit Ian in a way that he never could have imagined. He wanted to go back to the question of why? Why was this happening? It had to be some kind of karmic retribution that he’d brought on himself, knowing that maybe he deserved to be the one locked up. 

_You don’t deserve to be happy. This is where you belong, where you can’t hurt anyone. All of that new life you were trying to build would have crumbled into ruin eventually._

The only thing that gave Ian a very brief reprieve was the thought of Mickey waking up in a brand new body and not knowing what the fuck was going on. He must have nearly shit himself when he discovered Caleb next to him in bed. It almost gave Ian a chuckle. Almost. 

_Caleb_. Oh fuck. And the EMT job. All that shit was gone—down the fucking drain. 

As Ian lay on his bunk, face buried in his pillow, damp from his fresh tears, the sound of a now-familiar voice barely registered from somewhere close by.

“Why the fuck you crying, Milkman? Somebody die?”

It was Paulie, who actually sounded concerned and seemed like a halfway decent guy, despite the fact that Ian didn’t even know what he’d done to land in prison. He mustered up enough energy to respond. “Yep...”

“Shit, man. I figured. Never seen you cry before. Was it that friend of yours?”

“Friend?” Ian sniffled and rolled over to where he could see Paulie. He almost wished he hadn’t; the guy was taking a shit just feet away from him. 

“Yeah. Uh...what’s his name? Ian?”

“Wait, what? He’s...mentioned _me_?” managed Ian, forgetting for a second that he was supposed to be Mickey.

“Huh?” Paulie was staring back at him with a puzzled look. “I don’t mean to be in your business, ‘cause I know how you are about all that shit, but you say that name sometimes...when you’re sleeping. Figured he was some friend of yours.”

“Oh. Uh…” _Shit. Mickey had been calling out his name while he was asleep? Fuck, it hurt to think that he’d been haunting Mickey’s dreams, though he wasn’t surprised, considering that Mickey inhabited his dreams most nights. Ian had meant for Mickey to forget about him and to not ever have to deal with his shit again. Yet, here they were._

“It was my grandma who died,” explained Ian, just like Mickey had told him. “She practically raised me, so you know, it fucking sucks to hell.” Ian rolled back over to face the wall, hoping that he’d been convincing enough. He knew the other inmates were picking up on the fact that Mickey wasn’t acting like himself, and he needed that explanation to suffice.

A tiny part of him still clung to the notion that he was having a manic episode. But with every passing moment in his new compact frame, Ian began to wonder how long he was meant to be confined for. Was this a small test of his sanity and street smarts? How long could he survive in a place like this? Alone. _Well, not entirely alone_ , he decided. In a way, Mickey was with him. 

And he’d answered his phone call. He didn’t have to. Mickey was a free man now, but he was sticking around. At least for now. And when Ian stopped to think about it, he wasn’t even surprised.

Opening the top buttons of his uniform, he worked his hand under the material of his undershirt, grazing his fingertips over his chest to the trace the tattoo Mickey had pain-stakingly carved there. Ian wondered if he concentrated hard enough whether he could conjure up the throbbing sensation of the needle that Mickey had endured, all in an effort to show Ian that he wasn’t ready to let him go. Sure, he remembered the pain from the tattoo he’d gotten right after basic, but it would be different to administer your own tattoo—that took guts to keep going through the burn and the blood.

Ian pulled his shirt down low enough so he could get a look at the misspelled tattoo. It was no longer an angry, inflamed red like he remembered but looked like it was part of him now, a permanent fixture. Right over his heart. 

_Goddammit, Mickey. You really fucking loved me. Like no one else has. Like no one else ever will._

Ian squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the guilty thoughts ricocheting inside his head. He wanted to feel nothing, to be nobody, to disappear into thin air.

Paulie, completely oblivious to the fact that his distraught cellmate wanted to be left alone, said something about grabbing a shower before dinner. “Can you be on watch, man? I’ll get you back next time.”

Eventually, Ian opened his eyes and turned around. He figured he couldn’t say “no” since the guy was offering to return the favor at some point. “Sure, man.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes and mustered up the energy to rise up. “Lead the way.”

^^^^^^^^^^

Ian took a bite of the stale bread from his dinner tray, chewing it into a fine paste and swallowing it down with water. He had no appetite whatsoever, but knew he had to keep his strength up. If nothing else, Mickey was coming to visit the next day, and he figured he owed it to him to not to collapse onto the ground in a writhing mess and get carted away to the psych ward. Or get his ass beat and end up in the infirmary.

Ian was in his logical, rational frame of mind for the time being and had to seize upon it before his fears and insecurities overtook him again. It was a pattern he knew too well—moments of utter panic and despair, suddenly replaced with clarity and determination.

_I need to get back on my meds and stat. I’m not gonna make it otherwise. This is prison, for fuck’s sake._

He’d been lucky to be on work duty in the laundry area with Paulie and spent the couple of hours folding shit, which had ended up being strangely calming. Afterwards, he was able to use his phone privileges.

What would he have done if Mickey hadn’t taken his call? Called Fiona. And what would she have said if he’d called her as Mickey Milkovich, claiming to be her brother? That he was out of his fucking mind and trying to scam her.

Lip would have hung up immediately. Debbie and Carl may have shown Mickey a little more compassion. And Liam would have probably giggled into the receiver. Ian was really starting to miss everyone. 

_Debs. Maybe she’s had the baby by now. Means I missed the whole thing. Good job, Uncle Ian._

Ian pushed his tray away just as Damon neared the table and threw his tray down before taking a seat. “Yo, _ese_. I’m sorry ‘bout your _abuela_ , man. Paulie told me.” He reached across the table to nudge Ian’s shoulder. “But even gang bangers have feelings. Right, man?”

Paulie, who was seated across from Ian and next to Damon nodded in agreement. “He’s right. Huh, Milky?”

“Yeah…”

Damon jabbed his fork into the mystery meat on his tray and continued talking as he took a bite of his dinner. “Look, you probably need a few days off, I get it. But I need the stuff.”

“The stuff?” _Oh, fuck. Now he was going to learn about whatever shit Mickey had got himself into. Ian could have guessed that the Southside thug wasn’t gonna get out of the game. He wondered if he was still doing hits for Svetlana, but this sounded different._

“The goods, man. Can’t make it any clearer than that...” Damon’s eyes shifted to the other inmates around them.

“Oh. Right.” Ian didn’t have much choice but to play along. He vaguely remembered Paulie saying something about merchandise earlier in the day, but he didn’t have a fucking clue about where to find whatever Damon was talking about. He’d have to ask Mickey during their visit. “Can I get it to you tomorrow?”

“As soon as you can, _ese_. We got customers waiting.”

And then Ian said a very Mickey thing, almost without realizing it. “Well, they can keep on fuckin’ waiting. We got the best shit in here.”

Damon chewed silently, scowling at this comment, but then a slow smile spread over his lips, revealing a gold-plated tooth. “Damn straight.”

Ian rose up from the table with his tray. “I need to talk to Carter. From the infirmary. Know where I can find him?”

Both Damon and Paulie cocked their heads to the side, staring at him wordlessly. _Fuck, he’d messed up. But how else was he supposed to get in touch with the guy?_

“He’s right there, man,” said Paulie, pointing to an inmate at the other end of the table, a slick looking white dude with nearly perfect teeth. 

_“Who’s Carter?”_ mumbled Damon in a mocking tone as he and Paulie had a good laugh.

“Grief makes you forget shit,” shrugged Ian. He took a deep breath and walked the short distance to where the guy was sitting.

“Shove over,” commanded “Mickey” to the inmate across from Carter, and he complied.

“Milkovich! To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“Need a favor, faggot.” _Jesus Christ, where was Ian getting this stuff from? He actually sounded like Mickey. And people actually did what he said._

“Yo, fuck you, man. You don’t usually have a problem with my _faggot_ ass.”

Ian wasn’t sure how to respond to that nor was he ready to fully comprehend what this guy might be implying. “Anyway, need my meds adjusted.”

Carter scoffed, “You aren’t on any meds.”

“No shit. That’s why I need ‘em adjusted. Need you to fix my record. My bipolar’s acting up.”

“Bipolar, huh?” Carter eyed him suspiciously. After a few seconds, he rubbed his chin and nodded, “Yeah, I can see it. Whatcha need? Lithium?”

“Yeah. That and olanzapine. You got those?”

“Fuck yeah. Almost everyone in here’s on something. And if they’re not, they should be!” he yelled to no one in particular. “Come by tomorrow afternoon. And you’ll owe me.”

“Nice try, man. You already owe _me._ ” And with that, Ian rose up from the table to return his tray and seek solace in his bunk. He managed to walk with Mickey’s swagger all the way out of the cafeteria until he reached his cell. And then he was back to being Ian, a crumpled, sobbing heap on a lumpy mattress.

 _Damn_. Was it a day that had just passed by or a whole fucking month? He fell into a deep sleep, hoping with every fiber of his being that he’d wake up back in his own body.


	7. Mickey

Mickey paced the entire length of the first floor, trying to shake the overwhelming fear for Ian’s safety while also managing to be pissed off at his ex. He couldn’t help it—the only reason he’d heard from the ginger was because he needed him. Otherwise, Ian’s life seemed pretty fucking charmed, and it was apparent he hadn’t planned on Mickey being a part of it. 

Ian’s fuckboy, Caleb, still hadn’t let up on the texts; three more had come through that afternoon. 

_Ian, are you okay? Call me._

_Come over tonight for dinner?_

_I’m not angry. I’m worried about you. Let me know if you’re alright._

Mickey figured he might have to see the guy again at some point. _Might._ But Caleb was more likely to get ghosted.

Noticing a new email alert on Ian’s phone, Mickey decided to go ahead and check it. He supposed it was a violation of his privacy, but maybe there was something important or even a clue to their current predicament. 

Most of the messages looked like spam, and there were two new emails. One was from a dude named Ron and had a work schedule attached. Mickey quickly scanned the message and saw Ian’s name down for Wednesday. _The fuck kind of job does Ian have?_ _Oh well. Fuck it. I’ll have to call in sick so I can go see him tomorrow._

The other email was from someone named Rita, the managing supervisor for an EMT squad interested in hiring Ian. _Yeah, that’ll definitely have to wait._ Mickey could fake a lot of shit, but trying to act like an EMT could fuck up Ian’s chances of ever getting hired once things were back to normal.

 _Normal._ Mickey sneered at the thought of that word. He didn’t have any idea what _normal_ should look like or feel like, probably never would. No, being fucked for life meant dealing with all the shit that no one could ever wish for, including inhabiting the body of his gigantic ex, and now he was hungry again—probably Ian’s fault with his high fucking metabolism.

Mickey raided the fridge, polishing off two slices of cold pizza and heading upstairs to nose around Ian’s room while he had time to kill. As he neared the room where he’d once stayed with Ian and his little brothers, Mickey noticed a strange sound in the house—silence. Debbie and her baby must have fallen asleep. _Good, I can look around without Peppermint Patty in my business or asking me for anymore goddamn favors._

He pushed open the door and walked inside, pausing near the small bed he used to shared with Ian and taking in his surroundings. The room was cluttered as usual, and he noticed bits of dust suspended in the sunlight pouring in from the window. He pressed his fingers into the pillow at the top of the bed, though it didn’t appear to have been slept on recently, which made sense if Ian was shacking up with Caleb. 

Mickey sat down on the edge of the bed. He let his face fall into his hands, the weight of the world on his shoulders in that moment, flashes of “what ifs” and “could have beens” passing through his mind, twisting his insides. _Why did everything have to be so fucked up?_

He was so distracted that he didn’t hear the front door of the house get slammed shut, or the loud footsteps ascending the stairs. It was only when Carl breezed into the room with a “Hey, man. Whatcha doin’ in here?” that Mickey looked up.

The kid looked taller now than when Mickey had last seen him, less dead behind the eyes with longish hair. He knew that Carl had spent some time in juvie, had probably done pretty well, but he didn’t seem to have as much of an edge as Mickey would have expected. “Hey, Carl.”

“You back? Did Frank kick you out of his room?” The teenager asked him, rifling through a drawer.

 _Fucking Frank._ God, it would feel great to punch that fuck, just really let him have it. There was always a good reason to knock Frank on his ass—he’d been shitty to Ian plenty of times to warrant it, and Mickey did have some steam to blow off. He’d have to put that on his “maybe later” list. 

“Uh, Ian? Everything okay?” 

Mickey broke out of his trance. “Yeah. Need to talk to you.” _This is about to get interesting._

“Oh. I’m kinda busy right now. Been a rough couple of weeks. Going to see my girlfriend.” Carl held up a stick of deodorant and started applying it. “Gotta smell nice.”

“Yeah, well, congratu- _fuckin_ -lations. But you’re gonna have to make time for your...” Mickey paused, “...big brother.”

“This about your boyfriend? The fireman?”

Mickey grimaced. “Fuck, no! It’s about Mickey.”

“Mickey? Like _the_ Mickey? Mickey _Mickey._ ”

“Yes! Why does everyone keep saying that?”

Carl shrugged. “You haven’t mentioned him in a while. How about we go for a run later? Catch up.”

“I don’t fuckin’ run!” Mickey snarled, ignoring the fact that it was one of Ian’s favorite activities. “And this can’t wait until later. Let’s go for a beer.”

“Ha! I can’t drink. Not even at the Alibi. Guess we can just get a beer from the fridge?”

“No, no.” Mickey didn’t feel like running into any more Gallaghers at the moment. “I’ll take you out for a burger. You can knock boots with your lady some other time.”

“Okay then...Patsy’s?”

“Who the fuck is Patsy?”

“Ian? Seriously?” Carl rolled his eyes. “You know...where Fiona works? And so did you ‘til you quit. We can get our food for free. I’m busing tables there since I’m outta the game now. Sean set it up.”

“Who the fuck is—” Then Mickey realized he didn’t really care. “Yeah, no. I got another place in mind.”

^^^^^^^^^^

The burger joint was a sight for sore eyes after eating months of slop in the joint that could rival wallpaper paste. They grabbed a table, and Mickey ordered their drinks, cheeseburgers—medium rare for him and medium for Carl. As they waited for their meal, Carl was texting his girlfriend, promising to give “Ian” his undivided attention as soon as he smoothed things over with whatever-the-fuck-her-name-was. Mickey preferred the silence anyway, glancing around the restaurant, still amazed that he was a free man, just doing regular shit. With regular utensils.

The food arrived, and Mickey dove in, taking a massive bite from his burger, not caring that his mouth was probably covered in ketchup and mayo. He took one more bite before turning his attention to Carl. 

“How do you like it?” Mickey asked, raising his eyebrows, though he knew on Ian’s face, they didn’t go nearly as high as they would have on his own face.

“Pretty good,” mumbled Carl through a mouthful of his cheeseburger.

“Just pretty good? It’s fuckin’ delicious!” declared Mickey, eyeing their waitress, who seemed to be passing by more than was needed and winking at him. _The fuck? Oh. Right. Mickey had forgotten for a second that he was inside an extra-charming body. The power of the ginger._

“So, Ian...said you wanted to talk? Something about Mickey?”

“Well, yeah...” Mickey reluctantly put his burger down. He had planned on devouring the whole thing and ordering another one, but maybe it was better to get this conversation out of the way first. “You’re probably the only person I can—”

“You should go see him,” Carl said matter-of-factly and swiped a French fry through a glob of ketchup on his plate.

“Huh? That’s not what—”

“It’s lonely on the inside, man.” Carl pointed his fry at “Ian” and then stuffed it in his mouth. “I mean, I had friends and shit in juvie, but when you guys came to visit...well, that was something else. You know?”

“Yeah...I do know,” Mickey said quietly, wiping his hands on his napkin, then pushing his plate away. Leave it to Carl to make him lose his appetite.

“Know it’s not my business, but you kinda brought it up.”

“Guess I did.” 

“I mean, does anyone visit Mickey? You don’t go anymore. But he still has his wife and kid, right?”

Mickey took a long, slow sip of his beer before speaking. He wasn’t expecting things to go in this direction, though he remembered Carl being someone he’d opened up to once or twice. Nothing too deep, of course, but the kid had a quiet way about him that made it easier to say what you needed to say. “ _Ex-wife_. And I think his sister used to visit. But her, uh, job keeps her busy. She sends letters.”

“Wasn’t Mandy over at the house a few days ago? She mention Mickey?”

“W-what?" Mickey gulped. "Mandy was over at your—I mean— _our_ house?”

“Yeah, don’t you remember? It was like, two days ago. Maybe three.”

“How’d she look? Everything okay with her?”

“Why you asking me? You hung out with her.”

“Well, uh, that’s sorta related to what I wanted to talk to you about.” Mickey rubbed his hands together nervously. Now that he was about to say the thing out loud, he felt foolish, like he was stuck in a weird dream, explaining to someone else in the weird dream that he was stuck in a weird dream. He leaned in closer and waited as Carl did the same. “So, can’t tell Fiona. She’d say I was crazy, off my meds. And no fuckin’ way I’d tell Lip. He’d say the same damn thing, and that I was fuckin’ with him. And Debbie has her hands full with the baby. But...all of that aside, I think you might be the only Gallagher who’d believe me anyway...”

Carl’s mouth was hanging open in anticipation of what he was going to say. “Shit. What is it?”

“Fuck, there’s no way to say this that doesn’t sound like crazy town, but here goes…” Mickey took a deep breath. “Me and Ian...switched places. Bodies, minds. What I’m trying to say is, I woke up this morning in Ian’s body. But...I’m actually Mickey...” 

_There. It was out. What a fucking relief, regardless of whatever happened next._

Carl didn’t respond at first. Mickey could see that the wheels were turning in his head as he was trying to catch up with this unexpected piece of information. The kid seemed lost, unsure of what an appropriate reaction to this news should be. His expression went from confusion to amused doubt, like he figured “Ian” was playing some kind of elaborate prank. But Mickey maintained his stoic expression, which probably seemed menacing to Carl, green eyes directly on him, daring the kid to challenge what he’d been told.

“Okay…” Ultimately, Carl must have decided to go with it, even if it was just to humor the poor bastard sitting across from him. “So...how is that possible?” 

Mickey decided to lay it all out. “Fuck if I know, but it started this morning. I woke up in some other dude’s bed. In Ian’s body. Went over to the Alibi, tried to get Svetlana to slap some sense into me. That didn’t work, went to your house, thinking I might snap out of whatever warped reality I’d stepped into, ran into Debbie and fixed her a goddamn sandwich. Waited around to see if Ian would call, which he did. We talked for a few minutes, and he pretty much confirmed that the same thing happened to him. That is, he woke up in my body, so now I’m convinced this thing is really happening...”

“Uh-huh. You, _Ian,_ are actually... _Mickey_...but you talked to _Ian_ on the phone today.” Carl seemed to be making sense of things. “And Ian is _where_ now?”

“Prison. In my body. Without his meds, which I’m guessing he’s been taking before we switched places, since he finally got his shit together, which is just fuckin’ great considering my life is completely fucked, but hey, we never could get our timing quite right…”

“I see,” replied Carl. Now the doubt was likely setting in. “Yeah, this sounds like a bunch of bullshit.” He sighed and commenced with eating his burger, staring back at “Ian,” like he was waiting for an “April Fools” or the punchline.

Mickey laughed—what else could he do? It’s not like anyone would hear his side of things and believe that this most ridiculous scenario was actually true. He finally picked up his burger and decided to enjoy it. Matter of fact, maybe he’d get sloshed after this, hit up a few clubs and just enjoy being free again. 

“You do sound like him though,” admitted Carl. “Mickey, I mean. Doesn’t feel like I’m talking with my brother. But I guess if anyone could impersonate Mickey, it would be you.”

“I told you it was gonna sound nuts. With Ian’s history and all, well...don’t blame you for not believing me. But I needed to tell someone. And you’ve always kept an eye on him, much as you could.”

“I have?” Carl asked.

“Well, you had the balls to come over and talk with me that time he ran off with Yev. We had a beer. Remember?”

“I guess.”

“Don’t think Ian would have known about that. Would he?” Mickey asked. “Proves what I’m telling you is true.”

“Mickey could have told you about that.”

“And why would I have told Ian? Number one, we haven’t touched on that topic a whole fuckin’ lot, and number two, I gave you a beer.”

“So?” scoffed Carl. “I’ve been drinkin’ since I was eleven.”

“Still...don’t need my boyfriend to know I’m giving his kid brother alcohol. But yeah, I’m worried about him. This is a real head fuck, and I definitely got the better end of the deal.”

Carl grew quiet, brow furrowed, deliberating over what to do next. “Okay, so even if I was gonna believe you—which I don’t—what do you need from me?”

“Need you to update me on what’s been going on, how I can make everyone think I’m really Ian until we get this whole thing fixed. And I need a way to get over to visit Ian tomorrow. Promised him. Like you said, he’s gonna need support in that place. Prison can break you if you’re not careful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will probably be a “Mickey” chapter, too. Fingers crossed I stay motivated to keep writing, been kinda lazy as of late. 🤞🏼


	8. Mickey

Mickey slept surprisingly well that night, considering he was in a strange bed and an even stranger body. Ian’s bed was more comfortable than what he was used to—Ian’s body, not so much. It was odd how his feet dangled over the edge of the mattress when he stretched his legs out. But even with extra long limbs and a wailing newborn down the hall, Mickey got some much needed rest in Ian’s new room. Apparently he’d gotten an upgrade since the last time Mickey was around.

A restful night came with a price though. After waking up and reorienting to his surroundings—Mickey had been fully prepared to wind up right back where he belonged in his cell—he was struck with an overwhelming sense of guilt. His new circumstances were much more tolerable, compared to Ian’s. He had likely tossed and turned all night. 

But he’d know in a few hours how the redhead had fared. He’d get to see for himself. There was just one major hurdle to get past, and it wasn’t avoiding the Gallagher morning rush—that would be easy, thanks to Carl, who was telling everyone that “Ian” seemed a little off lately. It felt like a cheap shot, taking advantage of the fact that Ian’s bipolar could result in uneven or erratic behavior, but it was the best Mickey could come up with. Anyway, he wasn’t leaving Ian’s room until Fiona and the rest of the gang had cleared out, and from the sound of things, Debbie was going to school with her kid. _Good. Some peace and quiet._

But back to the hurdle that was weighing on Mickey’s mind— _Caleb_. Ian’s boyfriend had called and texted again the night before, threatening to come over and make a scene if Ian didn’t respond to his messages. Rather than telling him to fuck off like he was itching to do, Mickey decided to play nice. 

Come to find out from Carl that Caleb had a truck, and they’d need a way to get over to the prison, at least for this first visit. Then Mickey could try to lift a car or get Iggy to drive him for future visits. So he’d texted Caleb back, again using Ian’s bipolar to explain his behavior from the day before and asking Caleb if he could borrow his truck for a personal errand.

 _Let me drive you, babe. Anywhere you need to go,_ he’d texted. 

Mickey had felt like hurling, images of the smooth talker with his hands all over Ian, his ripped muscles tangled with Ian’s pale, freckled limbs, Ian’s mouth gaping open in ecstasy as he pounded his doting, dutiful, well-endowed boyfriend. Mickey wanted another chance to punch Caleb’s stupid face for keeping Ian away from him. But deep down, he knew he could only truly blame Ian for his decision to cut Mickey out of his life. It seemed to have been working out just fine for him.

Mickey responded to Caleb, _Thanks, but I need to do this on my own._ He’d rather hitchhike than spend an hour in a vehicle with that smarmy fucker. 

Once the house was free of Gallaghers, best he could tell, Mickey figured it was safe to come out of Ian’s room. He took a leak and brushed his teeth with Ian’s toothbrush—again, figuring he needed to treat his current vessel with care. The gash in Ian’s forehead was looking better, but now Mickey was facing a bit of a moral dilemma. Well, maybe “moral dilemma” was a stretch, but it did give Mickey pause when he realized he needed a shower and that would involve undressing Ian completely. 

It’s not like this was new territory or anything, but it seemed strange, like some kind of violation, especially when he caught a glimpse of Ian’s naked form in the mirror and began experiencing certain “feelings.” That’s when he decided to take his shower quickly and think about anything but the fucking ripped body he was occupying.

He wondered if Ian would have similar thoughts about being naked in Mickey’s body, discomfort or other, though prison didn’t allow much time to stand in front of a mirror and admire your own physique. And as many times as Ian had lavished praise and attention on every inch of Mickey’s smaller frame, Mickey couldn’t imagine that he’d be feeling very frisky under his current circumstances. 

After finishing his shower and wrapping a towel around his waist, Mickey went down the hall towards Ian’s room. He heard the front door open. 

“I’m back,” Carl yelled out. As planned, he’d walked home after being dropped off at school, seemingly committed to Mickey’s scheme. Whether he believed that Ian was Mickey and Mickey was Ian was still up in the air, but since it was a chance to cut class, Carl was game for whatever. 

Mickey picked out a random ensemble of clothes from Ian’s closet, threw them on, and met Carl downstairs in the kitchen. He wrapped up the pancakes and bacon someone had kindly left for Ian and headed out so they could take the L over to Caleb’s place. 

They grabbed some empty seats on the train, and Mickey gobbled down his breakfast. He was quiet for a few minutes until the reality of what he was about to do sunk in. “Fuck,” he muttered. “This was a bad idea. Not even sure I remember where his place is. Just remember where I got on the L after I cold cocked him.”

Carl shrugged, apparently still not convinced that “Ian” wasn’t fucking around with him. “You’ve been shacking up with the guy for weeks. How can you not remember where he lives?”

“No, I fucking haven’t. I told you already—I’m not Ian.”

“Fine. Then answer me this. Who’s the first guy Ian slept with?”

Mickey was on the verge of knocking some sense into this kid. Instead, he settled on a few choice words. “Dumbass. How would I know that? I’m not Ian! Monica must have dropped you on your head when you were a baby!” 

Truth is, Mickey didn’t know the answer to Carl’s question. Other than figuring out that pervy Kash had been letting Ian put his teenage dick in him, they’d never talked about their first times.

“Trick question,” replied Carl, though he looked as confused as ever.

“Anyways,” Mickey rolled his eyes. “Did Fiona suspect anything last night? Or Debbie?”

“No. I mean, they’re both kinda distracted right now. Fiona asked me if I knew how your EMT thing went.”

“ _Ian_ ,” Mickey stressed, “knocked it out of the park. I always knew the guy was smart.” He turned towards the window, watching the city pass by in a blur, feeling guilty again, for a different reason this time. He’d read some of Ian’s texts with Caleb—for research purposes, he kept telling himself, and he was going to confess everything to Ian during their visit, time permitting. But he needed to know a thing or two about Ian’s boyfriend if he was going to pull this meet and greet off.

Mickey had scrolled through their texts, quickly, trying not to hover for too long, afraid that he was going to stumble on something that might actually destroy him, words that Ian had never said out loud while they’d been together. 

Mickey made it all the way through several weeks of texts between the two of them, and yeah, there’d been a dick pic or two (Caleb), but no mention of the word “love,” just a bunch of corny-ass bullshit that was clearly something this new and functional Ian liked, because the Ian that Mickey knew would never spout such sentimental bullshit or spend time with anyone who did. In the series of texts between them, before the old switcheroo, that Caleb fucker sure had laid it on thick, congratulating Ian about acing his EMT exam, spewing some motivational nonsense about the world being his fucking oyster. 

It made Mickey cringe at the thought of someone—other than himself—being Ian’s support. It pained him to his core that the gut-wrenching and aching love he’d felt for Ian had never been enough to help Ian see with his own eyes what Mickey could see. 

But then this random fucker comes along, flashes his pearly whites, and his big dick, and magically, Ian’s confidence and mental health are restored. Take the Milkovich out of the picture, and Ian is healthy again, thriving. 

_The fuck_. Mickey definitely didn’t need to be plucked from his cozy prison cell and dropped into this demented reality. _Why was this happening?_

He felt a tugging on his arm, and he realized that Carl had been saying Ian’s name over and over again. “I told you, man, I’m _Mickey_!” he practically yelled, curling his fingers into the collar of Carl’s shirt and yanking him close enough for Carl to look into his eyes and see—or so it seemed—that his big brother was definitely not in at the moment. 

“Okay, okay!” replied Carl, not quite bright enough to be intimidated. He pulled away and adjusted his collar. “We’re here. The stop where you said. _Mickey_.”

^^^^^^^^^^

It took a few twists and turns, once down the wrong block, but eventually, Mickey remembered the building where he’d made a mad dash to find his way to freedom after his first encounter with Caleb.

 _I’m here_ , he texted the fucker. _Buzz me in._

A minute later, the buzzer to the door sounded and clicked, and Mickey opened it, waving Carl inside. 

“What’s this guy like?” Carl asked on their way up to the second floor. “Ian hasn’t said too much, just that Caleb is a hot fireman.”

“Hot? Ha! Depends on your definition of _hot,_ ” Mickey scoffed. 

“Well, yeah, uh...I’m sure he didn’t mean hotter than you, or whatever,” Carl looked down at his hands as the door to the elevator opened. 

“It’s fine, Carl. I know your brother was fucking this guy. I’m not tore up about it,” he lied, sucking in his breath before leading them to the apartment door he was pretty sure belonged to Caleb. “Here we go…” 

Mickey steeled himself, knowing this was going to be difficult to pull off, but he needed to focus on getting the keys to the truck and going to see Ian. A few seconds later, Caleb opened the door, a look of relief in his eyes - one of them slightly swollen from the punch Mickey had landed on his face. He moved to pull “Ian” into his arms. Mickey felt his breakfast rising up in his throat as he stood frozen, bracing himself for the impact. But whoever said Carl fucking Gallagher had a low IQ, Mickey decided in that moment, was dead wrong. 

“Hiya, Caleb!” Carl said cheerfully, literally inserting himself between the two men and reaching for Caleb’s hand, grabbing it and shaking it vigorously. “I’m Ian’s little brother, Carl.”

Mickey let out the breath he was holding and managed a weak smile, stepping back slightly in case Caleb insisted on trying to hug him again. “Yeah, this is Carl. Meet my, uh...m-my boyfriend?” Mickey was fairly certain from the texts he’d read between Ian and Caleb that they were together. Still, saying the word brought back his earlier desire to vomit all over the obnoxious doormat Caleb had at the entrance to his apartment - a picture of a bright red fire truck with a dalmation in the back. 

“Nice to meet you, Carl,” Caleb replied, brow furrowed in confusion, a question forming on his lips that Carl seemed to anticipate. 

“He wants me to go with him today. Our dad is, uh, getting out of prison...”

 _Nice one, Carl,_ thought Mickey, impressed with what a quick thinker the kid was. He hadn’t planned on giving Caleb any details about his errand, but this was a great cover story. Frank could actually be useful every once in a while.

“Yup, gotta pick up our pops,” agreed Mickey, his eyes darting between Caleb’s stupid face and all the way down to his well-polished shoes.

“Keys, please?” asked Carl, getting right to the point and holding out his hand.

Caleb grimaced, reaching into his pocket but then pausing. “I was hoping we could talk about the other morning, Ian. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine. I’m good. Real sorry about your eye,” Mickey said, hoping that was enough to satisfy Caleb for the moment. It wasn’t.

“Come on inside. Carl, can you give us a minute?” Caleb asked. 

“No can do, man,” insisted Carl. “Dad’s gonna be waiting on us. Maybe when we come back?”

Okay, Carl was a freaking god in Mickey’s book. He was going to owe him big time for this.

Caleb looked disappointed, but he pulled the keys from his pocket, handing them over to Carl as he shrugged. “Um, okay, then. But Ian drives, huh?” Caleb stretched his hand out to caress the top part of Ian’s arm. “You’ll take good care of my baby, right?”

Mickey was cringing on the inside but managed a nod. “Yeah, of course. We’ll drop dear old dad back home and then bring the truck back. Shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”

“Okay. We can talk this afternoon and grab some dinner. Make sure we get you back on track?”

“On track?” Mickey asked, immediately regretting that he was engaging in conversation with Caleb.

“With your EMT gig. The supervisor told one of my buddies she hasn’t heard back from you.”

“Oh, right,” agreed Mickey. _Fuck._ Not only did he need to turn down that EMT job, he also needed to call Ian’s supervisor from his janitor gig. Mickey knew he would be royally fucking up Ian’s current relationship, but he wanted to at least leave the guy with some semblance of his life intact when they were able to switch back.

“Let’s go, Ian,” urged Carl, tugging on the arm that Caleb wasn’t continuing to massage with his long, bony fingers, making Mickey’s skin crawl. The desire to blacken Caleb’s other eye was spreading into his hand as his fingers curled into a fist.

“Gotta get going,” Mickey said, turning towards the elevator.

“Okay. Call me if you have any trouble!” Caleb called out as Mickey and Carl hurried over to the elevator. Once inside, Mickey mashed the button to the first floor, followed by the “door close” button, desperate to put a barrier between him and Ian’s current flame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta-extraordinaire, whaticameherefor 😘


	9. Ian

Ian opened his eyes. He noticed an ache in the small of his back as he came to the realization that he was still in Mickey’s prison cell, still trapped in a body that was both foreign and familiar to him. His surroundings were as dismal as ever—the metal slab of the bunk above him and the sounds of metal doors creaking, random inmates yelling, and guards telling them to “shut the fuck up.” Along with the despair that was threatening to roll off of his lips in stilted breaths, there was the tiniest flicker of hope, too. He might actually get to see Mickey in a few hours and make some goddamn sense of what was happening. 

This was the most nervous Ian had been in a long time. He couldn’t be sure if his anxiety was driven by the prospect of Mickey showing up or the possibility that he wouldn’t. And his ex had every right not to show, let him figure this one out for himself. But their phone call yesterday seemed to point to the fact that they were in this together, at least for now. Ian needed to make sense of everything, to set things right, somehow. And of course, he needed to fucking survive being in the joint, something Mickey appeared to have mastered.

_I wonder where Mickey slept last night? Definitely not with Caleb. Probably in my room at home. Funny, I’d just managed to get my own room and now, here I am again with a roommate in an even tinier space. Of course, that’s the least of my worries..._

Ian heard his bunkmate stirring, which signaled the end of his silent reverie. _Never a moment's peace._ Paulie yawned and mumbled something about wanting an omelette for breakfast. “Make it happen, Milkman. You’ve got friends on the kitchen crew.”

“Not much they can do with powdered eggs,” said Ian, surprising himself with the ease in which he’d responded. He liked Paulie. The guy seemed decent enough, and he was easy to talk to.

“You sound better than you did yesterday,” Paulie noted as he climbed down from the top bunk and walked the few steps over to the commode. “Feeling better? About your dead grandma?”

“Uh, yeah. A little,” Ian shrugged as he sat up and got his bearings. “Might have a visitor today.”

“No shit?! Your old lady? And the kid?”

“No, not them,” Ian said sadly. He’d tried all night to put that memory to rest—the time he’d come to visit Mickey with Svetlana and Yev. It haunted him, the last time he’d seen Mickey, back when he’d decided they weren’t going to make it. _Self preservation_ , Lip had told him, and Ian had agreed outwardly. That was part of it, sure, trying to keep from spiraling into another deep depression, loving someone but not being able to have them. Ian also knew he wasn’t any good for Mickey, and if Mickey couldn’t bring himself to face that reality, Ian would have to handle it. Not that he was intending to close that door forever, just for a while. The universe, apparently, had other ideas.

“Friend of mine,” he finally added. “Ian.”

“Oh. _Ian_.” Paulie finished washing his hands and went to stand by the door. “Well, better get yourself together before this afternoon. You look like shit.”

^^^^^^^^^^

The morning was, thankfully, a blur of the same routine from yesterday—breakfast with Paulie, who tried to engage him in conversation about his visitor, though Ian remaining fairly despondent, followed by morning work duty and more chatter from Paulie about his cousins who were coming up on the weekend to see him. Ian nodded along, feigning interest while trying to ignore the occasional stares from the other inmates who must be wondering why the usual tough-as-shit Mickey Milkovich was acting like a fucking sad sack.

At lunchtime, Damon stopped by their table and reminded Mickey about their conversation from the day before. “Don’t forget about the goods, _ese._ Need that shit, like now.”

“Later today. Like I already fuckin’ told ya,” Ian almost yelled, but then wondered if he’d gone too far. 

Damon looked pissed, muttering something under his breath in Spanish, but seemed to take the hint to fuck off.

During afternoon work duty, Ian was again feeling the heavy weight of uncertainty about whether Mickey would come to see him. It made him want to throw up what little of his lunch he’d managed to get down. Just in case, he went ahead and confessed to Paulie that he didn’t remember how the visitor process worked.

“It’s been awhile, huh?” Paulie commented, but quickly seemed to realize he’d said something sort of dickish when the brunet blanched. “Uh, yeah. So, the CO on duty will come and get you once it’s your turn. Could be any minute now.”

“Yeah. Thanks…” Ian went back to pulling uniforms out of the dryer and tried to imagine Mickey going through the visitor check-in process. 

_What’s that going to be like_? _Coming back to the prison on the other side? I’m sure he’d rather be anywhere else. And if he was anybody else,_ thought Ian, _he’d be at the Mexican border by now, as far away as possible from this weird ass situation._

Ian was lucky he had Paulie watching out for him, because the CO must have called out “Milkovich” half a dozen times, but Ian was way too deep in thought to realize it. 

“Go! It’s time!” Paulie hissed and hit him on the shoulder.

“Oh, shit! Thanks.” Ian dropped the uniform he was folding back into the laundry bin and nodded at the guard who began walking quickly down the winding hallway, grumbling at “Milkovich” to hurry the hell up. 

“Who’s coming to see your ass today?” the guard snarked at him.

“Dunno,” Ian shrugged, his heart racing as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He’d never fainted before, but he figured that was a possibility now. Come to think of it, the last time he’d felt this strange mix of adrenaline, fear, and excitement was when Mickey Milkovich had him pressed down into his mattress, sweatpants-clad thighs straddling Ian, both of their chests heaving, Ian unsure if Mickey was about to end him or let him fuck his brains out. It had been the latter, thankfully. 

Ian tried to breathe normally as he and the guard neared an unfamiliar part of the prison. He figured they were getting closer. The light was somehow different, brighter, like he was about to have a taste of the outside world. The guard stopped in front of a windowed door and used his badge to open it. “Go on, Milkovich. Ten minutes.”

He couldn’t make his feet move. They were like blocks of cement, much like the heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. _This is all a dream. None of this is really happening._

“Now, Milkovich!” The guard shoved him inside the room, where he saw the backs of fellow inmates seated in visitation booths, cradling receivers, some laughing, a few solemn and having hushed conversations. Then he noticed the empty booth in the middle.

Ian gulped and willed himself to focus on the person on the other side of the glass. If he was going to pass out, this was the moment. But he didn’t. Still, it was fucking surreal, seeing himself back in that same place he’d been sitting months ago. Yet the expression on his face belonged to someone else.

He somehow made it over to the small stool in the middle of the booth and planted himself there, eyes down and hands threaded through dark hair.

There was a faint tapping sound on the glass, and Ian finally worked up the courage to pick up the receiver and meet the gaze of his visitor.

“Hey,” a familiar voice sounded in his ear, soft, not harsh like Mickey could have been if he wanted to. 

“Hey,” Ian whispered, pressing his hand against the glass as tears welled up in his eyes.

“Don’t,” Mickey told him sternly. “You can’t.”

“Yeah, sorry.” Ian blinked the tears away, remembering that he shouldn’t let his guard down, no matter how much he wanted to let it all out. “Th-thanks for coming. Really. You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah I did. Keep bumping into shit.” Mickey pointed to the band aid covering part of his forehead. “Need to figure out how to work your giant-ass body.”

Ian relaxed a little, seeing as how his ex was keeping things light. Or trying too. 

“This is fucking weird, huh?” Mickey asked. It was Ian’s mouth and his freckles and his green eyes staring back at him, but the smile was all Mickey.

“Yeah,” he let out a breath. “Really fucking weird.”

“You look good,” Mickey said in his Mickey way, and the words made Ian’s chest ache. He was struck with a flash of Mickey saying something similar to him months ago. And just like today, he was clearly more worried about Ian than himself. Mickey had spent the last year and a half making Ian his first priority. Even though he never could save his bipolar ass, he never seemed to want to give up trying.

“Jesus, Mick, I...fuck…” Ian hung his head. This was all his fault for so many reasons. 

Mickey tried to lighten the mood again. “I thought this might do it, ya know...thought we might switch back, like BAM!, when we saw each other.”

Ian sighed into the receiver. “Yeah. I’m not sure how this whole thing is supposed to work.”

“Supposed to?” Mickey raised his reddish eyebrows. “Why? Did you ask for this to happen? Go visit some sorta witch doctor? You were dying to see the inside of this place?”

“No! Don’t know what happened. I was at a carnival...thinking about you. And I made a wish on this stupid machine.”

“A wish?” Mickey’s eyes widened. “Well, how ‘bout you make a fucking un-wish? There’s things in there I need to take care of.”

“Oh...that.” Ian nodded slowly. “I told Damon I’m out. I can’t handle—”

Mickey cleared his throat and shook his head. There was a clear look of disgust on his face. “Seriously, Gallagher? You’re gonna pussy out on me?”

“Mick, I’m not going to...I can’t do that...I don’t want to…” Ian felt the anxiousness he’d been trying to ignore rise up in his throat, His lips were trembling. He was on the verge of tears again. 

“Okay, okay. Relax. If you can’t handle it, Damon’ll be cool. Just, fuck...” Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose. “Remember how you used to nag me about reading more?”

“Sure, but what does that—”

“In the library, during rec time. Look for the copy of _War and Peace_. It’s good shit. Give it a read.” Mickey paused to check Ian’s understanding. “You got it, man?”

“Yeah. I got it. Thanks.”

“Alright. Good,” Mickey dropped the annoyance in his tone. “Get your meds?” This was the Mickey he knew so well, always looking out for him.

“Not yet. I will though. Soon.”

“Good.” 

Ian caught Mickey’s eye and managed the slightest of grins. Maybe to reassure him. Maybe because Mickey had a knack for helping Ian find his way out of the darkness. They both knew that their time was slipping away. There never seemed to be enough time for all the things they needed to talk about.

Ian swallowed over the lump in his throat. “Mick...why are you helping me? I don’t deserve it. I mean, you could have just...left me here. To figure this out…”

“Like I told you already, you don’t belong in here.” Mickey placed his hand on the glass and seemed to focus on the tattooed hand that Ian had resting on the booth. _What is he doing_? wondered Ian. Then he knew, raising his hand to press his fingers against Mickey’s. He felt an electricity in his fingertips, even through the glass. _Fuck what anybody else thinks,_ decided Ian, as fat tears rolled down his cheeks. 

Mickey seemed to regret what he’d done, given the reaction it garnered, and jerked his hand away. “Ian. Look at me.” His voice was steady and commanding. This was what Ian needed to get through this. He needed Mickey. He’d always fucking needed Mickey. Why had he ever thought otherwise? 

“Tell me more about this machine. Maybe I can find it. See if I can, I don’t know, make a wish, too?”

“Um. Yeah.” Ian rubbed his hands over his cheeks to wipe the tears away. “I mean, it’s worth a try. It was some type of machine with a Fairy Godmother. You put in your money and make a wish. At the carnival in Tinley Park. In the game section. It started malfunctioning right after I made my wish.”

“Okay. That’s something. Me and Carl can head over there tonight. Check it out.”

“Carl?”

“I told him about what happened,” Mickey explained. “Had to tell someone. Not sure if he believes me, but—”

“My little brother Carl?”

“Yeah, he rode up with me, decided to wait in the truck. Give us some space, I guess, or whatever.”

“And Debbie’s okay? She had the baby?”

Mickey nodded. “Kid’s got a set of lungs. Frankie, they call her. No, _Franny_. Named her after—”

All of a sudden, a loud buzzer sounded in the visitation area. Their time was up. 

“Shit. That wasn’t enough time, I still need to…” Ian’s voice trailed off.

“Listen,” Mickey said matter-of-factly. “You can call me tomorrow. And I’ll be back this weekend. Maybe I’ll even have this figured out, you know, before we…” Now it was Mickey’s turn to process what was happening. Ian could see it all over his face. What if he could get things back to the way they were supposed to be? Did that mean they’d just go back to their lives devoid of any contact? That this was just a temporary reprieve?

_No, Mickey. I’m sorry! I was an asshole! The least I could have done was be a fucking friend to you, even if I couldn’t be more than that. I thought I was protecting both of us._

These were words in Ian’s mind that he couldn’t say out loud. They would come across as desperate lies from a desperate man, someone who knew he couldn’t survive on his own. There had to be another way to make this up to Mickey. Now that Ian had all the time in the world on his hands, maybe he could figure it out. 

“Mickey,” he said quietly, ignoring the guard who was yelling at him to wrap it up.“Thank you. For everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof! That scene in S6x01. Oh, Mickey. 
> 
> What do you guys think? Did Ian ever go back to see him? Canon seems to indicate that was the last time.


	10. Mickey

_Man the fuck up, Milkovich. So what if you love him? So what if you’d do just about anything to save his pussy ass?_

Mickey paused at the edge of the sidewalk outside the visitor entrance, thoughts whirling around inside his brain.

 _Fuck. Ian looked like shit._ _I looked like shit. Ian, as me, looked like shit. About as bad as he did the last time we saw each other…_

The memory of Ian’s last visit to the prison was one he’d replayed many times in his head, analyzing every word they’d spoken, every time Ian had refused to make eye contact, the tone of his voice, and ultimately, how difficult it had been for Ian to make one simple promise. _Will you...wait?_ After everything they’d been though.

 _Not now,_ Mickey told himself. _I can’t think about this now. If I do, I’ll fucking break._

He wandered through the parking lot until he spotted the truck with a sleeping Carl in the passenger seat. Best to get the fuck out of this place before he did something stupid. He’d recognized a few of the guards during the check-in process, not the worst of the bunch, but it still took everything in him not to tell them to go fuck themselves while they patted him down. He’d put on a brave facefor Ian back there, for many reasons. One of them had to do, with a feeling he would never admit out loud—a sense of being lost, now that he was “free.”

While Mickey had been locked up, he’d managed to make things tolerable for himself. Prison was way more hardcore than juvie, no surprise there. And maybe Mickey had never learned how to play chess, but he could move other inmates and the guards around like pawns when he needed to. Look at how quickly he’d gotten in good with Damon and his crew and practically set up their whole operation. His commissary was in pretty good shape now—he’d have to tell Ian.

It was life on the outside that he seemed to suck at, making the wrong moves, loving the wrong people. Well, person. Prison wasn’t a picnic by any stretch of the imagination, but it was predictable. And...uncomplicated.

Mickey sighed as he unlocked the door to the truck, startling Carl awake. 

“That was quick,” said the teenager, bolting upright in his seat and swiping the back of his hand over his mouth. “Guess I fell asleep.”

“Yeah. Clean up your drool, man,” Mickey muttered while starting up the truck.

“How’s Ian?”

“Not great. But I’ve seen him worse.”

“Shit. Maybe I should have gone in? Let him know I’m thinking about him.”

“He knows,” Mickey reassured the kid as he drove away from the complex. He was feeling like a damn bitch for being on the verge of tears.

“Was it a total head fuck to see yourself in prison? Like, you were basically having a conversation with yourself, right?” 

“Didn’t really think about it.” Mickey shrugged. “I mean, yeah, for the first few seconds, it was really fucking weird, but then...well, all I could see was _him._ Ian.”

“Geez,” Carl said and then went back to playing on his phone, possibly trying to give Mickey some space to process things.

As they got closer to the city, Carl started up again with the questions. “Can Ian get his meds?”

“I think there’s a way,” Mickey said, deciding it was time to grab something to eat. “You hungry?” He was already turning into a nearby White Castle and pulling into the drive thru line.

Carl nodded. “I can always eat. But don’t we need to get the truck back to what’s-his-name?”

“Yeah, eventually. But fuckface can wait. We got an errand after this.”

“Where we going?” Carl straightened up in his seat and craned his neck to look at the menu. 

“Some carnival. Ian said he made a wish. Thinks that’s what caused the switch.” 

“A wish?! Sounds like a fucking fantasy movie.” Carl nudged Mickey on the shoulder. “Get me a number one with a coke.”

“How about a fuckin’ _please?_ Your parents ever teach you...nevermind,” Mickey rolled his eyes and pulled the wallet from his back pocket. “ _Ian’s_ got this. Guess the dude is doing something right. Oh, fuck! Shit!” 

“What?” asked Carl.

“Forgot to call his boss, tell him that Ian wasn’t going in today. Some dude named Ron. You know anything about it? His job?”

“Cleans up after college kids...where Lip goes to school.”

“That fuckin’ sucks. Lip’s an asshole.”

“No he’s not. Look, can we order? It’s our turn.”

Mickey glared back at the dopey kid. Who did the little shit think he was dealing with?

“ _Please_ …”

^^^^^^^^^^

After they downed the greasy sliders, fries, and large Cokes, Mickey drove through rush hour traffic as Carl navigated them over to the carnival in Tinley Park. As predicted, Caleb texted Ian’s phone a few times, wondering when he’d be back, and Mickey responded with an excuse about being stuck in traffic. Caleb then asked for a picture of Ian with his newly released father, to which Mickey replied: _No can do. Dad’s kinda shy._ He’d come this close to sending Caleb a pic of Ian’s middle finger instead.

By the time they arrived at the fairgrounds, it was dusk, and the lights on the Ferris Wheel were already lighting up the sky. _So, this is the place._ Once upon a time, Ian had mentioned wanting to come here together. 

“So...we going in?” asked Carl. “What are we looking for?”

“Dunno.” Mickey checked Ian’s hair in the rear view mirror and tried to pat down the fiery red strands poking out of the part in the back. He’d have to find some product to tame that shit. “Ian said it was a Fairy Godmother wishing machine. Fuck, why didn’t he wish for a million dolllars? Idiot.”

“Fairy Godmother?” chuckled Carl. “So what did he wish for?”

“Didn’t have time to ask him.”

 _But I guess he was thinking about me when he did it. That’s something._

Mickey sighed. “Let’s go. Whatever Ian did, I need to undo it.”

They got out of the truck and walked over to the ticket window. Mickey paid for two tickets, which included unlimited rides.

“Ian’s treat again,” he told Carl as they walked through the entry gate. “All my cash is stashed at my house. Don’t think Ian’s gonna be welcome there. Might have to get you to sneak inside.”

“I’m down. For a cut.”

“We’ll see, gang banger. Let’s go find the game area.”

“Uh, Mickey. You mind if I go do my own thing? Feel like this is between you and Ian and the universe.”

“That so?”

“Yeah. And I wanna text Dominique. She’ll be wondering where I’m at.”

“Sure thing, Romeo.” Mickey scoped out the area in front of them, trying to ignore the irritating carnival music being pumped into the air. They were close to a merry-go-round. “Meet me back here at eight.” He pulled a twenty out of Ian’s wallet and handed it to Carl. “If you get hungry. Have fun!”

Mickey watched Carl wander off and then proceeded to the large directional map in the center of the courtyard. The layout looked like most amusement parks. This place had to be more affordable than Six Flags, and he could see why Ian would have wanted them to come here. It was mostly families and couples milling around, no shady-ass teenager thugs, unlike the state fair where Mickey had gone with his brothers a few times to push product. 

He scanned the map for the game area, and located it pretty quickly, pausing and looking down at his hands, which were distinctly not his, but Mickey still couldn’t be sure this was all really happening. Hadn’t they both been through enough fucked up shit to last two lifetimes? 

But what choice did he really have? Might as well play along with this “Choose Your Own Adventure” story, like the ones his fourth grade teacher used to read aloud to the class. 

Mickey walked past the Ferris Wheel and a couple of other rides. He got distracted by an old ass carnie with a pot belly, shouting at Mickey to "step right up!" so he could try to guess his age, weight, or height. Mickey should have kept walking, but the guy seemed sorta desperate for some company. He walked over to the booth and addressed the dude, whose faded nametag read “Earl.”

“Hey there...Earl. Lookin’ for something.”

“You and me both, kid,” the man replied with a wink. “Want me to guess your weight? If I’m way off, you win a prize. Only three dollars. Best deal here. Win something for your best girl, handsome fella like you.”

“No, I’m good. Don’t need any of that shit. Just lookin’ for a particular game. Automated, I think.” Mickey moved a little closer to Earl and spoke in a low voice. He felt like an idiot for asking about the damn thing. “Some kind of wishing machine. With a Fairy Godmother. Know where I can find it?”

“Hmmm. You wanna make a wish, huh? Like Cinderella?” 

“Ha, yeah. Whatever, man. Just tell me where I can find it,” Mickey replied, clearly not amused.

“Can do, tough guy. Keep going towards the right, over that way,” Earl waved his hand in a vague direction, but at least Mickey knew the thing existed somewhere. “Actually. Hold on. Better yet, let me radio over to Harold. He’s our repair guy. That machine's been here for years, goes on the fritz quite a bit.”

“Okay…” Mickey waited as Earl mumbled some jargon into his walkie-talkie and then nodded at the response. 

“Yeah, go on over to the row of games and hang out by the pinball machines. It’s in a covered area.” 

_Great, even better directions than the last time._

“Harold’ll be there. Skinny guy, couple years older than me. He’ll be wearing a Sox baseball cap.”

“Uh, thanks.” This is why Mickey rarely stopped to ask for help or engage with other people—made simple things more complicated. 

He gave Earl a slight nod then followed the path for a few more minutes until he spotted someone who could indeed be “Harold.” 

The man greeted him before he got a word out. “You the one looking for the wish machine?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“It’s out of order. May be the last one of its kind. Not sure I can get her up and running again.”

“Anything I can do? It’s kinda important.”

“That so?” the older man asked, running his fingers over the gray stubble on his chin eyeing Mickey in a way that made him uncomfortable. “You get in some kind of trouble with that thing? Making a wish?”

“Uh...no,” Mickey stuttered unconvincingly. “Not me...exactly. Fuck you askin’ for?” 

“Heh. Well, I’ve been here almost twenty years. And every so often, someone takes interest in that machine, they come looking for it, and it’ll be broke. So I tell ‘em to try back in a few months, and—”

“Months!?” exclaimed Mickey. “I can’t wait that long.”

“As I was saying, they never come back. Seem to figure out whatever pickle they’ve gotten themselves into. Or, I guess they live with the consequences of whatever happened. So I guess I’ll tell you the same. Try back in a few months. Either that, or you can try to figure out why you’re in the predicament you’re in, assuming you are. Though you said you aren’t.”

“Gee, thanks, Mister. That’s some solid advice. So basically, I’m screwed.”

“Dunno, fella. But you look like a smart guy. I’m sure everything’ll be fine.”

“Yeah...uh-huh. Right.” 

Now what the fuck was he supposed to do? This had been a fucking wild goose chase, a complete waste of time. Mickey found himself at a total loss. He watched the repair guy disappear behind a door marked “Private” and slumped down on a nearby bench.

Ian’s cell phone started buzzing non-stop—a welcome distraction in this case. He pulled the phone out of his pocket to see who the fuck couldn’t keep their shorts on. And it wasn’t Caleb blowing up his phone with texts but Fiona.

_Where are you?_

_Where’s Carl? He’s not answering his phone and the school called to say he skipped._

_Wtf, Ian? Is everything okay?_

_I checked your bottle of meds. Did you skip a few doses?_

Jesus. Fuck. He should have known Fiona would be watching Ian’s meds like a hawk. Mickey had tried that, once upon a time, to be Ian’s caretaker, and gotten a punch right in the kisser. But he was pretty damn sure Ian was at the point of turning things around when Sammi ratted him out, and the MPs carted his ass away. Fuckin’ bitch.

Mickey figured he better get Carl home and decided to try looking for him. The place wasn’t that big.

 _Too bad they don’t sell booze,_ thought Mickey, itching to get wasted. _Maybe after we get home. But fuck, I have to go into work tomorrow. Or do I? Cleaning up after a bunch of trust-fund, college asswipes—no thank you. Sorry, Ian. And sorry I can’t do your EMT shit either._

Mickey wandered around, feeling like he was going in circles, trying to use the Ferris Wheel as a point of reference, glancing up at the swirl of the lights and hearing a familiar name coming from above.

“Ian! I mean, Mickey!! Mickey!! Up here!!”

Mickey spotted Carl waving at him like an idiot, rocking back and forth in his seat, much to the terror of the older woman beside him on the Ferris Wheel, who was now likely regretting her decision to ride with the kid. Mickey waved back, almost wishing he was in the mood to enjoy some of the rides—or even the carnival food—but he was ready to get the fuck out of there.

Once the ride was finished, Carl practically ran down the exit ramp towards him.

“What’d ya find out?” he asked hopefully.

“A whole lotta nothing. Better get you home. Your sister’s been texting Ian.”

“Oh. So I guess you’re still...Mickey, huh? I figured, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Looks like it.”

“Need me to take the keys back to Caleb?”

“Naw, man. Got it covered. Let’s go.”

Somehow, Carl knew not to ask any more questions, and he stayed busy on his phone during their ride back into the city. Mickey dropped Carl off at the Gallagher house and plugged Caleb’s address into his GPS. He wasn’t in the mood to see Ian’s _lover_ again, but he’d at least do the right thing and bring his truck back. Just so he wouldn’t give Ian any trouble, should Ian ever go back to being Ian.

Mickey found a place to park on the street, locked the truck, and made sure no one was around when he shoved the keys on top of the left front wheel. He’d text Caleb about the location of the truck and the keys once he was on the L. 

And that he did. Caleb was none too pleased.

_So that’s it, huh? Use my truck all damn day, and don’t have the courtesy to bring me my keys. What the hell, Ian?_

_Long day,_ replied Mickey. When was this joker going to officially fuck off?

_Not sure I’m buying your story about your dad. Are you mixed up with that ex of yours? The one you said wasn’t good for you?_

A blinding rage gripped Mickey. _Not good for Ian? Not good for Ian?!_ He gripped the metal pole next to his seat, angry enough to snap it in half. 

Right before his stop, Mickey loosened his grip and took a deep breath. He needed to kick the shit out of someone or something, but he somehow managed to convince himself that getting his drink on and crashing in Ian’s room was safer for everyone. Mickey didn’t reply to Caleb’s last text. Instead, he made a beeline for the nearest 24/7 bodega.

_Not good enough for Ian, my ass._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters will probably be longer from here on out. Thanks so much for reading!


	11. Ian

Ian walked solemnly behind the guard. He’d asked to go to the library but was unsure how to get there. All the hallways in the prison looked the same—depressing tunnels of rows and rows of gray cement blocks. The powers-that-be were really winning with the whole incarceration motif. 

_Mickey misses me,_ Ian reassured himself. _And he has to know I feel the same way. Then again, I gave him no fucking reason to believe I’d wait. I did everything I could to put distance between us, including rebooting my life with someone else. Does he know about Caleb? Does he care?_

_Wait, do I care about Caleb? I don’t know. We were just getting to know each other, sharing secrets, opening up. But Caleb didn’t live those secrets firsthand with me. Mickey did..._

“Rec time’s over in ten, Milkovich. Have fun _reading,_ ” scoffed the guard before depositing “Mickey” at the library door. 

The prison library reminded Ian of the library in his elementary school. The books were worn and unorganized, and the shelves that housed the books, other than the ones against the wall, didn’t go above Mickey’s waist. 

It was a fucking shame, really, because all Ian wanted to do was to hide behind the stacks and collect himself after what was an extremely emotional heart-in-his-throat, through-the-glass reunion with Mickey. But better to process everything later, when he was in his bunk and Paulie was filling the air with heavy snoring. For now, Ian needed to find _War and Peace,_ get whatever the fuck was in there, and give it to Damon without incident. 

Ian quickly figured out that _most_ of the books were organized by title. As he got closer to the section with the W’s, he glanced over his shoulder at the other inmates. A few were seated at the wooden tables, faces buried in law books, scribbling notes. _Okay, Sherlock,_ a voice in his head said scoldingly, _chill the fuck out. No one cares about what you’re doing. Play it cool._

A minute or two later, Ian found himself crouched on the floor, book in hand, heart pounding against his chest, wondering if he was going to actually get away with whatever this was. He stood up and slowly opened the book, his back shielding anyone else’s view from the neatly cut rectangular hole that started around page 200 and contained a wrapped package of fine white powder. Ian cleared his throat as he removed the package and shoved it into his jumpsuit in one swift motion. He closed the book and bent down to put it back. That’s when he realized he’d been holding his breath and finally remembered to let it out.

For good measure, he pulled another couple of books from the shelves and thumbed through them, just another day in prison with nothing to do but find a good book to read. He felt the weight of the package against his junk—Mickey’s junk. Ian didn’t like to brag about the size of his own cock—okay, maybe once in a while—but if it had been his actual junk, there wouldn’t have been room for anything else in the prison-issued tighty whities. 

_Fuck, I hate tighty whities. Too many memories of a drunk and belligerent Frank stumbling towards the bathroom in the middle of the night, or a Sunday morning over pancakes with Frank standing up and leaning his barely covered balls over the table to grab the syrup._

Ian halted this thought process. He realized that the more he was conjuring up images of Frank in tighty whities, the more he needed to get on his meds before his mind started to wander to even darker places. Carter had told him to stop by the infirmary today, but he probably wouldn’t have time. Tomorrow. He could go another night without his meds, wouldn’t be the first time.

As Ian was shoving another random book into its place, the guard stationed outside the library appeared and ordered everyone to line up to return to their cells. Ian complied, feeling the guard’s eyes on him and what he swore was a flicker of amusement in his expression. Did this guy know what he was up to? Mickey was usually pretty slick about this shit, but you could only have so many secrets in this place, right? Ian kept his expression as lifeless as he could, put on his best stone-cold Mickey expression and marched back to his cell, not at all surprised to find Paulie seated on the edge of Mickey’s bunk, shooting up at attention like he was expecting a snarky comment from the brunet. So Ian gave him one. 

“The fuck you doin’ in my bunk?” He probably didn’t sound convincing. Paulie just smiled back at him. 

“Oh, yeah...forgot about how sensitive you are. But I ain’t moving. It’s almost dinner time. Why don’t you take a load off, tell me about the rest of your day. Your visitor…” 

Paulie’s last comment was more like a question and had Ian wondering how much Paulie actually did know about him and Mickey, or how perceptive he was. But surely he must have figured Mickey wasn’t going to open up about shit. Not at the drop of a hat. Ian kept quiet and headed to the sink to wash his hands.

“You’re walkin’ kinda funny, Milkman. Got something in your drawers, or you just happy to see me?”

“Fuck off,” Ian grumbled. “Got Damon’s shit is all. You gonna cover for me?” 

“When?”

“Dinner, I guess.” Ian had deduced that Paulie was mostly aware of whatever racket Mickey was involved in since Damon had mentioned it in front of him. 

“Not your usual spot, but fine by me. Then I’ll cover you in the showers. You’re starting to smell like a donkey’s unwashed ass.”

Ian shrugged off the remark and made sure Paulie wasn’t looking when he raised his arm over his head and took a whiff, something Mickey would have done. And fuck yeah, he was ripe, and he could use a shower, but there was something about Mickey’s scent that was comforting, familiar. He remembered what a dirty-ass, unkempt thug Mickey was when they’d first started fucking. As they’d gotten older, he’d started taking better care of his hygiene, like he finally started to give a damn. Mickey was well aware that Ian would take him however he could get him, but a little soap was a nice indication that he gave a damn about the redhead.

The buzzer sounded for dinner, and both men joined the line of prisoners headed for the cafeteria. It seemed to be moving slower than normal, and before long, the reason for the delay spread like wildfire through the line—the guards were doing a random frisk and search. 

Ian almost stopped in his tracks. _I’m so fucked. They’re going to find this shit on me and send me to the hole, extend Mickey’s sentence, and then Damon’s going to fuck me up._

He heard Paulie mumbling something and tried to refocus, get out of his head.

“Get in Fergie’s line,” he said.

“W-who?” Ian stammered.

“Ferguson. The female guard who has the hots for you.”

_Nice, Mick. Always making friends. Fucking charmer._

As they got closer to the entrance, Ian noticed five other lines forming, and he scanned the guards until he spotted the sole female guard. She was tall-ish and sturdy, thick hips, dark hair pulled back in a bun, plain face but probably used make-up when she wasn’t surrounded by hundreds of horny inmates. Paulie subtly maneuvered both of them towards Fergie’s line, and Ian steeled himself for the possibility of being made when it was his turn to be searched.

He nodded at the woman, who looked to be in her forties upon closer inspection, holding in his breath when her hands moved along his thighs and patted the front of his crotch. He felt her fingers flutter over the package, and their eyes met as she placed her hand against her chest. “Pardon me,” she mumbled, blushing and trying to hold back a smile. 

“Um...that’s, uh…”

“You’re clear, Inmate Milkovich. Proceed.”

Ian staggered into the line for his tray, seeing Paulie ahead of him and not daring to look back at Mickey’s female admirer. 

_God, what a day._ And Ian still hadn’t had time to fully process his visit with Mickey from earlier, and fuck, maybe the brunet was going to get to the bottom of this switch-up tonight, and they could figure their shit out. And maybe find a way to get Mickey out of this place.

Because why the fuck wasn’t Mickey trying to get out? _He doesn’t belong here anymore than I do. The biggest crime he committed was being a dumbass and not checking Sammi’s pulse before shoving her into that storage container._

If only Ian had been there to talk some sense into him, tell him to let karma do its thing to Sammi. Or they could have come up with a better plan, like the time Mickey helped Ian get revenge on that Bible-beating asshole who hated gay people. Mickey seemed to do really stupid stuff when Ian wasn’t around. Like taking that jacked up plea bargain and fucking up not only his future, but their future.

“Hey, Milkman! Over here!”

Ian had been on autopilot, picking up his tray of slop and wandering aimlessly for a place to sit down until he spotted Paulie and Damon. Thank fuck, he could unload these drugs and find other shit to think about.

“Yo, _ese,_ ” hissed Damon once “Mickey” was seated. “You’re a real dumbass, bringing that shit in here. If that bitch didn’t have it bad for you, our whole operation would have been fucked.”

Ian hung his head, not feeling the power of the Mickey swagger at the moment. “Got a lot of shit on my mind. Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Damn! Things must be bad if _el Miguelito_ is apologizing.” 

Ian could feel both men’s eyes on him, but he didn’t respond with anything specific, just gave Damon a nod that he was ready to hand the package over. The other inmate took the hint and glanced around them. He nodded back, leaning down with the pretense of adjusting his shoelace as Ian pulled the package out and held it underneath the table, waiting until he felt Damon grab it. Paulie was keeping watch, and mouthed the word “clear” once the deed was done.

Ian wanted to breathe a sigh of relief—thank fuck he was rid of that thing—but he knew that might look suspicious. Instead, he forced another dried-out bite of meatloaf down his throat, wishing silently that Mickey was there to help him calm down.

As Damon and Paulie chatted about how quickly they’d be able to move the product, Ian focused on the contents of his tray. He pushed the lumpy mashed potatoes around with his spork and choked down a few of the canned peaches. What he wouldn’t give to be back in the Gallagher kitchen, sinking his teeth into a cold drumstick from the bucket of KFC someone had left in the fridge.

Before Ian could wax nostalgic much longer, the buzzer sounded, signifying the end of dinner. The three men grunted their goodbyes, and Damon headed out of the cafeteria in a different direction. The guards from earlier were gone.

Back in their cell, Paulie reiterated his offer to watch “Mickey’s” back in the showers, again stressing how rank he smelled. Ian accepted, having decided that maybe a shower would help him shake off the funk he was in.

They headed to the communal bathrooms, which were much less crowded in the evenings. Ian got in line for the showers as Paulie positioned himself in front of the sink, taking his time with washing his hands and face. 

Ian kept his eyes down as he stripped off his clothes and headed towards the nearest vacant shower stall, oblivious to the other naked inmates around him. He turned the water on, numb to the fact that the first few seconds of the stream were freezing cold. The water warmed up, and the steady spray against his skin was soothing.

After he grabbed the half-used bar of soap from the ledge and created a lather with his hands, Ian did have to admit that this shower was doing him some good—making him feel like a human again, instead of a dirty animal caged in a pen. 

He spread the lather over his face, neck and chest and didn’t give much thought to the fact that he was washing Mickey’s naked body. That is, until he gripped his cock, which fit perfectly in Mickey’s hand, and realized that there was some extra skin he needed to clean. If he’d been in better spirits and not sharing the space with other inmates, he might have spent more time enjoying the sensation of massaging Mickey’s foreskin up and down over the head of his cock. A cock he admittedly missed a whole fucking lot. 

Before giving himself an erection, which now seemed to be a possibility, Ian rinsed the soap from his hair and body, wrapped a towel around his waist, and hurried out of the showers. 

^^^^^^^^^^

Ian woke up the next morning to more of the same—the uncomfortable mattress and Paulie’s inane chatter. They ate breakfast, went to work in the laundry area, and Ian’s mind drifted to what Mickey was up to at the moment. _Sleeping? Hanging out with Carl? Playing video games?_ Then it was time for lunch, and Ian remained guarded and filled with worry about whether Mickey would take his phone call—it was the one silver lining of this whole twisted situation—a legitimate reason for them to talk again. 

The afternoon rolled around, and he and Paulie were back in their cell. As he anxiously waited for his phone privilege, Ian wasn’t in the mood for making small talk. Paulie wasn’t the best at reading the room.

“Yo, Milky! At the risk of you poppin’ off, I’m gonna venture a guess that your grandma didn’t die. I think you’re down about something else.”

Ian didn’t really have the energy to refute Paulie’s claim. The guy seemed to know Mickey pretty well, or at least seemed to be able to read that something was way off. “Maybe. But let’s leave it at that.”

“Sure you don’t wanna talk about what’s bothering you?”

Ian shook his head. “Going to the phones in a few.”

“Huh.” Paulie cocked his head to the side, clearly not ready to let this go. “Lemme guess. Gonna call Ian?”

 _Shit_. What had Mickey said about him? It wasn’t like his ex to open up to just anyone. The most he knew was that Paulie had overheard Mickey say his name a time or two while he was asleep.

“Fuck off, Paulie,” was his go-to Mickey response. 

His cellmate waved a hand at him dismissively and rolled over in his bed. “Whatever, man.”

Ian turned his focus to the five minutes he was going to get to spend talking to Mickey. Maybe the brunet had even figured something out with the wish machine. The guy was really fucking smart, way smarter than people gave him credit. And loyal. When Mickey had your back, he really had your back.

A few minutes later, Ian heard the guards calling out “phone time,” and without saying anything more to Paulie, he headed out of their cell, joining the line of inmates from his cell block.

Ian did everything in his powers not to appear jittery or anxious as he waited for his turn. A couple of guys who were also waiting for the phones nodded at him, and he returned the gesture, figuring that these were more of Mickey’s allies. He needed to get a better understanding of who else he could trust if he was going to be here a while.

It was finally his turn, so Ian lifted the receiver and punched in his phone number. The line rang three or four times before the automatic voice came on to ask if Mickey would accept the call.

“Yeah, sure,” said a voice that wasn’t Mickey’s but somehow still sounded like him. “Sup, Gallagher?”

“Hey, Mick,” Ian whispered breathlessly. There were so many things he wanted to say, he wasn’t sure where to start. “Thanks for coming yesterday.”

“Uh-huh.” Wasn’t much of a response, but maybe Mickey needed to ease into things. 

“Where are you?” Ian asked.

“Your room. At the Gallagher Inn. Here with my buddy, Jack.” Mickey punctuated that statement by taking a swig of something—Jack Daniels, apparently.

“Oh.” Something was different today. Fuck. What was going on with Mickey? Was this thing getting to him? If so, they were beyond fucked. “Everything okay? Did you check out the carnival?”

“I did. Machine’s broken, probably beyond repair. Means we gotta figure this shit out ourselves.”

 _Fuck_. Using the machine to reverse this was probably a long shot anyway, but now it was a complete dead end. “So, you’re drinking?”

“That a problem?”

“Mick...c’mon…”

“D’you get your meds?”

“Going this evening," Ian reassured him.

“Tell Carter I said ‘hey.’ And just so you know, we fuck on the reg. Best bottom I ever had,” Mickey informed him, probably less interested in cautioning Ian and more interested in shocking him.

“Noted.” Ian had already put two and two together about him and Carter, but Mickey had just twisted the knife a little deeper. 

“Probably wanna tell him that you need a break. I mean, assuming you do…”

Ian didn’t really need to hear it out loud, but he could guess the intent behind his words. Something had definitely happened to upset Mickey, and this was his way of getting back at Ian. Only it wasn’t exactly fair, all things considered.

“I can keep my dick in my pants for now. But you don’t sound like yourself, Mick. Wanna hang up? Try this again tomorrow?” Ian gripped the receiver and pressed his forehead against the cement wall, hoping with all hope that Mickey wasn’t done with him.

“Hold on, Gallagher. I, uh, just thought you should know. A heads up is kinda nice. Don’t you think?”

Ian bit into his lower lip. “Oh. So, that probably means you know about my, uh... _ahem,_ Caleb...”

Silence on the other end. Ian was pretty sure he could hear Mickey scrape a glass bottle across the floor. “Sure do. But yeah, let’s deal with that shit later. You get the stuff for Damon?”

“It’s taken care of. For now. But listen, I’m sorry. I’m really fucking—”

“It’s fine. Hang in there. I know it’s gotta be rough. Call me tomorrow. And I’ll be up on Saturday.”

“Okay, Mick. See you soon.”

Ian was the first one to hang up. Fuck, they had a lot to talk about. And with the situation they were in, there was no need to hide anything. Still, knowing them, it might take some time to get things out in the open.


	12. Mickey

Mickey waited for the sound of Ian hanging up. He tossed the phone onto the bed—the bed he’d stayed in the whole day, except to take a piss and grab something to eat once everyone was gone. Sometime in the middle of the day, Fiona had knocked on Ian’s door, and Mickey tucked his bottle of whiskey under the covers and pretended to be asleep when she peeked inside. 

Right now, he was feeling like a piece of shit for bragging about how much fucking he’d done with Carter. There was no point in trying to hurt Ian when he was already in over his head. It wasn’t like him to be a petty bitch. But that text from Caleb was still weighing on his mind. _Not good enough._

Okay, that wasn’t _exactly_ what it said, but it’s where Mickey’s mind went. He couldn’t shake the image of Ian and Caleb sitting around in that smooth-talker’s apartment, drinking wine coolers or some girly shit and having a laugh at Mickey’s expense. At how he dressed like a homeless thug and how he never took Ian out to fancy restaurants or bought him anything, like a real boyfriend would have.

 _Not good enough._ Deep down, Mickey knew that wasn’t true, not after the past year of sticking with Ian, despite the cheating and taking Yev on that ill-advised road trip, and his overall struggles with being bipolar. So why couldn’t his ex be bothered to say nice things about him? Had he been fronting for his new man, or trying to convince himself that he was better off without Mickey?

They’d have to talk about it at some point. Or not. Caleb was pretty much ancient history—good fucking riddance. He’d finally stopped texting when Mickey stopped responding.

The present, more than the past, was what Mickey needed to focus on now—making sure Ian was safe while they sorted this out. As he finished off his second bottle of Jack, Mickey vowed not to be a dick to Ian anymore, not when so much was at stake. It wasn’t like him to hold a grudge against the guy, even if he had every right. He’d forgiven Ian for far worse things, and besides, Mickey had this nagging feeling in his gut that if the universe was willing to fuck with their lives like this, well, it had to be for a reason.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door, and Mickey was bored enough to entertain whoever was on the other side. “What?”

Turns out it was Carl, home from school, thumbs hooked around his back-pack straps. He came inside without hesitation and closed the door behind him. 

“You been laying here all day?” he asked, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. If Mickey wasn’t the tiniest bit fond of the kid, he would have given him shit for barging in and making himself at home.

“What’s it look like to you?” Mickey answered. 

“Fiona was asking me if you were okay. She knows something’s up. It’s not like Ian to stay in his room all day. I mean, not lately. And what about his meds?”

Mickey picked up the two bottles of bills on Ian’s nightstand and shook them. “Flushed Ian’s morning doses already. And I’ll do the same tonight. But Jesus, can’t a guy have a day or two to himself, especially under _these_ circumstances?”

Carl shrugged. “Yeah, I get it, man. It’s a lot. I was thinking about this shit all night, not sure how you can get things back to normal. You got any ideas? Google?”

“Yeah, brainiac. Let’s consult Google.” Mickey pretended to tap a question into Ian’s phone. “Google, _how do you swap bodies back? Results: can’t help you, nutjob._ I think we’re pretty much fucked for now.”

“Okay, fine. Point taken. But let me know if you think of anything,” offered Carl, changing the subject. “You talk to Ian today?”

“Yeah, for a few minutes. He’s okay. ‘Sposed to call tomorrow, and I’ll go up on Saturday. You comin’ with?”

“Maybe. Depends on Dominique.”

“Bitch has you on a tight leash.”

“Ha! I’m not the one going to see my ex in prison,” Carl reminded him with a smirk.

“Well ain’t you clever?” Mickey replied, taking advantage of Ian’s longer legs to kick at Carl’s side.

“Calm down.” Carl hopped up from the bed. “How you gonna get there anyway? Too bad I had to hand my car over to G dog and his boys.”

Mickey chuckled. “You had a fuckin’ car? Look at gangbanger Carl Gallagher.”

“Yeah, bought the house for us, too.” The kid looked around the room proudly. “But I had to get out of the game. Shit got crazy.”

“I hear ya. Seen my share of heavy shit over the years.”

“Yeah,” said Carl, trying to shake away whatever had made him feel down. “Meantime, you better be there for dinner tonight. Fiona’s all jazzed about her wedding to Sean, wants everyone to be involved. Frank’s been pitching in, too. It’s fucking weird.”

Mickey groaned, knowing it was probably time to face the Gallaghers. “Fine, come get me.”

“Alright. And you might wanna take a shower. You look like hell. And you smell like shit.” 

Carl skirted out of the room before Mickey had a chance to hurl some profanity—or a sharp object—his way.

^^^^^^^^^^

Mickey had a pounding headache, but he knew having dinner with the Gallaghers was probably a good idea for keeping up appearances. He didn’t want anyone trying to send Ian’s ass to the psych ward, or starting in on him again about his bipolar—that shit was exhausting. 

As they sat around the table passing the bucket of KFC and orange pop, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that there was some tension between Fiona and Debbie. Lip was nowhere to be found. Frank either. Sean, Fiona’s fiancé was apparently the designated peacekeeper and was talking about the staff drama at Patsy’s to entertain everyone. Mickey pretended like he knew what the guy was talking about since Carl had mentioned that Ian used to bus tables there.

Suddenly, everyone’s eyes turned to “Ian,” and Mickey wasn’t quite sure why.

“Hey,” Fiona said softly, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “Sean was askin’ you something. You seem kinda spaced out. Smell like whiskey, too. Everything okay?”

He glanced over at Carl who gave him what looked like an encouraging nod. Time to do his best Ian impression.

“Oh, uh...” He moved his hand away from Fiona’s and turned to Sean. “What’d you say, man?”

Sean smiled. “Asked if you can get fitted for your tux tomorrow.”

“What the fuck do I—” Mickey felt someone kick him under the table and knew right away it was Carl. “Right. My tux. Sure.”

Mickey took a huge bite of his chicken and hoped someone else would start talking, but he knew the spotlight was still on him. 

“Think you can get the day off from your janitor gig?” Fiona asked. “Or did ya start your EMT training already? Real proud of you for kickin’ ass on that test.”

Her words were kind, but she knew damn well he hadn’t been to work for the last few days. Fiona was fishing.

“Still doin’ the janitor thing— _(lie)_ —but I can fit the tux thing in. No problem.” It was as much of an Ian-like response as he could muster. The alternative was: _mind your own fucking business and leave me the hell alone._

Fiona looked like she was about to probe further about EMT shit, so Mickey cut her off, telling Sean, “Text me the address of the place.” He tossed the half eaten piece of chicken on his plate and pushed back from the table. Time to make an exit from this scene—he’d done the best he could.

“Goin’ for a walk,” Mickey shouted, exiting through the front door before anyone could come after him. Thank fuck he had his smokes and a lighter in his pocket. Mickey lit one and took a slow drag. He had this sudden urge to call Ian because who else would appreciate Mickey having dinner with the Gallaghers, as Ian, trying to _be_ Ian? It was so fucked up, it was comical.

Truth be told, Mickey didn’t have much affection for Ian’s siblings, other than Carl, maybe. And Debbie was okay. And yeah, Liam was a cute kid. Lip was a kind of a dick, and Fiona, well, she could be a nagging bitch, but Mickey respected her. He didn’t actually dislike the Gallagher offspring, it’s just, sometimes he blamed them for not taking better care of Ian, not looking out for his needs. 

Fuck, maybe he was being unfair. Everyone had their own issues. _Hell, Fiona’s fiancé is a damn junkie_. _Clean, my ass_. But that was for her to deal with. If Mickey had to play the role of the fade-into-the-background middle child, he figured he would. It’s what Ian would do. 

He started to think about his own family as his feet led him towards a familiar place. _Fuck_. He wasn’t ready to go back to the Milkovich house, not with Terry around—though Mickey figured he could give the old man a pretty serious beat down between the redhead’s biceps and his own pent up rage.

Mickey got as far as a block away from his old house before he turned around to head back to the Gallaghers. _Nope. Not gonna do it._ Yeah, he needed to get up with Iggy about borrowing a car before Saturday, but he could do that via phone, and they could meet somewhere. 

Mickey also realized he should get in touch with Mandy. He’d been a dick about not letting her come visit. She’d resorted to sending him letters, even offering to get him better legal representation at one point. But he’d ignored the offer, preferring to do things his own way. Because Mickey Milkovich wasn’t about taking charity from anyone. 

^^^^^^^^^^

He thought he’d avoided having to do the tux thing with anyone else. Sean had texted him the address and said to meet him around 11am. Mickey purposefully waited until 1pm before heading over to the shop, then texted Sean to apologize. But who had just arrived? _Fucking Lip._

“Ian! Man! How ya been? _Where_ ya been?” Lip held out his hand, and Mickey did the half handshake, fist bump shit he’d seen the Gallagher brothers do many times before. 

“Dunno, Lip. Been busy,” he answered while they waited for the tailor.

“Busy, huh? Fiona says you’ve been hanging around the house. And going on strange excursions with Carl?”

Mickey didn’t respond. He was already sick of Lip and his “big man on campus shtick.” It had probably made Ian feel small, seeing his brother find success at college, while he had to clean up after him.

“What about your EMT training?” Lip asked. “You studied for that shit. Just gonna leave it alone?” 

What a nosy-ass fucker. Mickey wasn’t used to having his siblings following his every move. Sure, Mandy and him had always kept tabs on each other, but not like this. “Tell ya what. I’m gonna come back in a few hours. Don’t feel like answering a bunch of goddamn questions right now.” Mickey started towards the door. 

“Don’t be like that, man. We might as well have a little fun with this wedding shit, yeah?”

Mickey turned around long enough to see the two hand-rolled joints Lip was holding out. _Well, shit-a-brick. He couldn’t turn that down._ Besides, better to get this tux shit out of the way, so he could go somewhere quiet when Ian called. 

“Alright, you convinced me.”

They went into the alleyway outside of the shop, letting the guy know they’d be right back. While they smoked, Mickey didn’t say much, just listened to Lip talk about some drunk-ass professor of his and how he’d probably fucked up his scholarship. The longer Mickey spent with him, the more Lip seemed kinda down, uncertain, not his usual arrogant self. And he reeked of booze.

“Sorry to hear all that,” he offered, and Lip gave him a half-smile.

By the time they’d finished smoking and gone back inside, Lip was starting to grow on Mickey. He’d taken the hint that “Ian” wasn’t in the mood to talk about his own shit, so he didn’t ask about his job, or _shudder_ , his boyfriend.

Instead, Lip brought up the wedding and how it was kind of cool that Fiona asked them to walk her down the aisle—even if Frank was demanding “fatherly rights” to do it himself. Apparently, the ceremony was the following Tuesday, and Mickey was making mental notes of all the details, unsure if he’d be the one attending, or if the real Ian would be able to make it.

After the fitting, the brothers walked together towards the nearest L station. Lip asked him about grabbing a drink. “Sure you don’t wanna talk? Don’t seem like yourself.”

 _Guess I’m not fooling anyone_ , Mickey decided. It was too bad he couldn’t confide in Lip about what was going on—he might have a solution, being a genius and all. The guy would never believe him though.

Mickey decided to respond. “Things are just sorta fucked up right now.” And that was the goddamn truth.

“Yeah? How’s it going with the firefighter? He comin’ to the wedding? I’d like to meet the dude currently taking it up the ass for you.”

Mickey wanted to vomit. “Jesus,” he muttered, trying to block out that particular mental image. “Tough shit about meeting him. Don’t think it’s gonna work out.”

Lip grinned at him in this sort of knowing way. “Still hung up on Mickey, huh? Figures.”

“Wha—uh, what the fuck ever.” Mickey was not expecting his name to come up, and he sure as fuck didn’t expect Lip to be so casual about it. Shouldn't he be telling “Ian” to get over his loser of an ex and move on? Well, if that part was coming next, Mickey didn’t want to hear it.

“I’m gonna walk around. Clear my head. See you later.”

”Okay. See ya, little bro.”

^^^^^^^^^^ 

When Ian’s call came through, Mickey picked up right away, and responded “fuck yeah” to the prompt about accepting the charges. He’d been looking forward to this all day, hoping the conversation would be less tense than the day before. 

“Hey, Mick. Everything okay?” Ian asked.

“Yeah, how ‘bout with you?”

“I’m fine. Just tired. You know, the usual weirdness...with the way things are.” 

Mickey could hear the exhaustion in his voice. On top of everything else, prison was no joke. “Hang in there, man.”

“Trying. Where are you?”

“In a park, believe it or not.” Mickey leaned against the bench he’d picked out. There was a definite chill in the air, maybe there’d be snow soon. “The general public ain’t as scared when I’m in your body.”

That got him a laugh from Ian. “Ha! Well, everyone seems to be plenty scared of you in here. Not that I’m complaining. Paulie seems cool.”

“He is. I was about to say ‘tell him I said hello,’ but that’d confuse the fuck outta him.” Mickey smiled, actually missing his cellmate. They’d looked out for each other, had a father/son vibe going between them, which was kinda nice. Paulie never had kids, but Mickey had told him plenty about Terry. “He’s good people. Killed a guy, but that’s ‘cause the fucker was bangin’ his wife.”

“Oh, shit! Hadn’t really been able to ask him, you know? But I wondered. The guy snores really fucking loud.”

“That he does.”

They were both starting to relax, and Mickey noticed a familiar ease to their banter. This is what he’d wanted all along with Ian, to hear his voice while he was locked up, to have him be a part of his life, and to know he gave a shit. It was kinda fucked up that he had it now. “Guess who I just spent two hours with?”

“Oh, um…Frank? At the Alibi?”

“Not even if you paid me. No, I was with Lip. Getting fitted for tuxes. Your sister’s gettin’ married.”

“Fuck! That's right. Guess you’ll have to be there for me,” Ian said with a touch of sadness in his voice.

“C’mon. This’ll be over in a few more days,” Mickey insisted, trying to convince the both of them.

“Not sure how, since we don’t have a clue how to undo it...”

 _Maybe it would help if we both admitted to being total idiots,_ thought Mickey, but he was pretty sure neither of them were ready to do that. “So, Gallagher. What exactly did you wish for? That night?” 

“Um, just...uh. Something about wanting to know how you were doing? I mean, I definitely didn’t say I wanted to switch places with you, not like that _Freaky Friday_ shit,” insisted Ian. “I keep trying to remember, but it’s all kind of hazy at this point.”

 _Huh_. Seemed like Ian was holding something back. Was it on purpose, or could he actually not remember? _C’mon man, if you_ _really wanted to know how I was doing, why the fuck didn’t you come ask me yourself?_

 _“_ Well, if you remember anything that we can use, let me know.”

“Yeah, of course,” Ian agreed. “If I can think of anything...”

“Same here. Listen, I know you probably have to go soon, can hear those fuckers getting rowdy in the background. Just tell me...how’d you like that book I told you ‘bout?”

“Oh... _the book._ It was good. A real page turner.”

“Interesting.” Mickey pulled out a cigarette and lit it. God, he’d missed smoking, like really being able to enjoy a cigarette without having to rush through it or put it out half way before a guard caught him. “So, Gallagher...sure you want out?”

“I’m sure.”

“Bad move, tough guy.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not your ass in here,” grumbled Ian.

“But it kinda is,” Mickey pointed out.

“Fine, so you can resume when you and your ass are back together. In the meantime, I’m not going to continue this—”

“Okay, okay. You’ll get another _recommendation_ in a week or two, and all you have to do is tell Damon. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“So, guess we’re even now.”

“Why?” Ian asked.

“Pretty sure I cost you your janitor gig,” Mickey confessed.

“Eh. I was gonna quit anyway, try for the EMT thing.”

“But you know that’s not happening, right? I don’t know shit about medical stuff.”

“Yeah, Mick. I figured.” Ian was definitely wearing a big ole shitty grin, probably remembering the time Mickey had gotten shot in the ass and at the time, neither of them knew what to do.

“But, let’s be honest.” Now Ian didn’t sound like he was smiling. “I would have crashed and burned anyway. I had to lie on my application.”

“Big deal. Who hasn’t? I mean, not like I ever filled one out,” Mickey admitted. “What’d you lie about?”

Ian paused for a few seconds, like he was ashamed. “I lied about my bipolar. Lame, right?”

“Do what you gotta do, man. It’s not like you were dealt a fair hand.” Mickey realized the irony of his words under their current circumstances, but it wasn’t like either of them had ever had it easy. 

Ian changed the subject, which wasn’t a bad idea—no need to dwell on their shitty life experiences for too long. “Good news. Started my meds.”

“Oh yeah? Have any trouble?”

“You mean, with your _fuck buddy_?” Ian sounded sorta annoyed, maybe not exactly jealous of Carter because that would have made him the hypocrite of the century. “I let him down gently. Said my ex was back in the picture.”

Mickey took another slow drag from his cigarette. “That so?” Sounded like Ian was staking his claim. 

“Seems like it,” he said with a sort of flirty tone, just like old times. _Fucker_. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Better look your best, Gallagher.”

“Sure thing. And uh, Mick? If you happen to run into anyone that I was, you know, uh, dating…recently...”

 _Oh, fuck. What was he about to say? Something about Caleb._ Alarm bells started going off in Mickey’s head. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his palms were suddenly sweaty, even in the cold. “Yeah?” he said with as little interest as possible, though he was sure his tone was giving everything away.

“Tell him ‘it’s over.’”


	13. Ian

_So long, Caleb. If something serious was supposed to happen between us, I wouldn’t be here._

_Now, onto more important matters. Need to make sure I look good for Mickey’s visit. So...how do I look good for Mickey...as Mickey?_

Ian was studying the brunet’s face in the mirror. He ran the tip of his index finger over each of his dark eyebrows, then from the bridge of his nose down to the tip. Familiar blue eyes watched his every move and stirred something painful inside of him.

_Why’d you leave me here, Gallagher, wondering about you every damn day?_

Ian’s hand was pressed against the edge of the sink, fingers curling into a fist, and he wanted to punch something—maybe the mirror.

“Time for a shave, huh, Milky?”

Ian came out of his trance and realized Paulie had woken up from his nap. “What’d you say?”

“It’s been a few days since you shaved.”

Rubbing his hand over the light stubble on Mickey’s face, he replied, “Yeah, guess so.” 

Ian remembered being jealous that Mickey could go twice as many days without shaving as he could. But his ex did always like to be clean-shaven—that was something he could do to make himself presentable. And he’d have to make working out a priority, couldn’t get sloppy. He’d always been fascinated by Mickey’s strength in such a compact frame.

“Got another visitor tomorrow, huh? Is it Ian?”

 _Hmmm_. Maybe it was time to see why Paulie was so interested in what was going on with Mickey’s personal life.

“Yeah, that’s right. What’s it to you?”

Paulie shrugged his shoulders and climbed down from the top bunk, grunting as he hopped onto the floor. “Just makin’ conversation, is all. It’s nice you have a friend on the outside.”

“Sure thing, Pollyanna.”

Paulie let out a deep belly laugh. “The nicknames are back? Nice.”

Ian managed a laugh, too. For the longest time, he’d meant to write down all the nicknames Mickey had given him over the years. “Firecrotch” was at the top of the list.

Paulie glanced curiously at his cellmate. “I might have to take a looksie though.”

“The fuck? At what?”

“I want to see what your friend looks like. Maybe if my cousins get here around the same time.”

Ian scratched the side of his face. “Why do you wanna see _Ian_?”

“Well, up until now, I’ve only seen him in drawings.”

“Drawings?”

“Yeah, I know you saw me looking that one time. Then you got rid of ‘em.” Paulie waved his hand in a sweeping motion. “And then your letters disappeared. You said I was too much of a nosy bastard for my own good.”

“Oh. Right.” Ian had wondered why the walls around Mickey’s bunk were devoid of any decorations and why he seemed to have little to no personal effects. After the first two days of being in the joint, he’d given himself permission to go through Mickey’s belongings—but found next to nothing.

“You mad that I said something?” Paulie asked.

The buzzer sounded before Ian could reply, and like trained rats in an experiment, they moved over to the door to wait for the line to dinner. Ian patted Paulie on the back. “I’m not mad. I mean, what else can we do in this place besides be in each other’s business?”

“Well, there’s that, Milky, and there’s also holding onto hope. Hang in there.”

Their conversation further confirmed what Ian had suspected—Mickey must have opened about their relationship at some point. And on top of that, Mickey had made a genuine friend in this awful place. Paulie seemed to truly care about Mickey; it gave Ian some comfort knowing that.

^^^^^^^^^^

Ian felt as nervous as he had before Mickey’s first visit, but this time, he and Paulie had gotten called to the visitation area together. It was a nice distraction while they walked towards the front of the prison, listening to Paulie go on and on about his cousins and how wild they’d been as teenagers. The older man gave “Mickey” an encouraging thumbs up before they were permitted inside.

Ian spotted the pale, red-headed man he’d been looking at in the mirror his entire life, sitting in booth #5, receiver already pressed against his ear.

“Hey, Mick,” Ian whispered into the phone. He took note of what Mickey was wearing—a plain gray t-shirt and jeans—and wondered how long it would be before his ex started rocking the button-up shirts with the cut-off sleeves. “This is still fucking weird, huh?”

“Yeah, don’t think it ever _won’t_ be.” Mickey offered him a half-smile. “You look good.”

Ian’s heart fluttered at the compliment before he could feel his face turn red. “Oh. Ha. Because I’m you, right?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, _you_ look good, too. I see my forehead’s healing nicely.”

“Yep. I’m taking care of you. Gettin’ used to these gangly things.” He gestured to Ian’s arms. “But, uh...all joking aside, you got any ideas about us getting things back to normal?” 

“Not really.” Ian figured they were stuck like this, for at least a few months, based on what the guy at the carnival had told Mickey. “Have you tried Google?”

Mickey looked at him like he had three heads. “Seriously? That’s what Carl said.”

“And?”

“Fuck no, what am I going to search for?”

Ian rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over this chest. “For the machine? Maybe there’s another carnival that has the same machine. Doesn’t have to be around here. Fuck, even if you have to fly to Japan, we can scrape the money together somehow.”

“Oh.” Mickey may have been wearing Ian’s face, but his embarrassment at being outsmarted shone through. “Why didn’t you say something before?!”

“I don’t know, maybe ‘cause I got a lot of other shit on my mind!” Ian shouted in reply, nodding in the general direction of the guards. 

They were silent now, not making eye contact but fully aware that there was little time for arguing.

“Paulie’s here, too,” Ian said into the receiver with a softer tone. “Want to say ‘hi?’”

“Real funny.”

“Bet he’ll give me shit later about seeing you. I think he’s rooting for us though. Keeps teasing me about you.” Ian swallowed over the lump that had formed in his throat. Maybe he needed to stop probing Mickey to talk about how things were between them. Sometimes, it seemed like his ex wanted to hash things out, but other times, he had his guard up. “Mick?”

“What?” he responded gruffly. _Nope, he’s not ready to talk about us._

“How’d you get up here?”

Mickey straightened up in his chair, apparently ready to engage again. “Called Iggy.”

“Really? As me?”

“Yeah. _He_ never had a problem with you. And he’s been helping me with our... _operation_. You know, with the books— _War and Peace_? I call him about every two weeks, and he gives me the drop intel.” 

“Oh, makes sense.” Ian had been trying to put the pieces of Mickey’s drug ring together, but it wasn’t something he could openly ask about, in case their calls and visits were being monitored. 

“I told him we were talking again. Said enough to convince him that _Ian_ is back in the picture.” Mickey’s eyes darted downwards towards his hands.

Ian wondered what Iggy actually thought of him, probably that he should have been more loyal. “Does he ever visit you?” Ian asked.

“No visits. Took him off my list. Mandy, too. Don’t need nobody’s pity. Besides, they treat you like you’re a fucking criminal when you—”

“But you kept _me_ on your list?”

Mickey was quiet for a few seconds, then he nodded and shrugged. “Guess I did. Guess I thought you might...come around.”

The buzzer sounded, and both men practically jumped out of their skin. Ian wanted to bury his head in his hands—they’d barely scratched the surface on things they needed to actually discuss. There was one thing in particular Ian wanted to bring up—the letters Paulie had mentioned. Who were they from? Mandy? And why the secrecy?

“Hey, Ian. Call me tomorrow, huh? I’ll go on-line tonight and see what I can find out about the machine.” 

Ian nodded, painfully aware of the impatient guard behind him, tapping his baton against the palm of his hand. Still, Mickey continued. 

“Carl really wanted to come today, but his girlfriend was being a demanding—”

_“Milkovich! Hurry the fuck up if you don’t want to lose your visitation privileges.”_

With that threat looming over them, Ian shot straight up and put the receiver in its cradle. He waved goodbye through the glass and for just a second, he saw Mickey’s reflection overlaid on top of Ian’s reflection, both of them wearing pained expressions. There was so much to say, but never enough time. _Never enough time._

^^^^^^^^^^

During dinner, Ian listened as Paulie shared the details from his visit with his cousins—twin brothers, also in their fifties. They were taking care of his two parakeets, which explained all the random pictures of the multi-colored birds taped up around Paulie’s bunk. 

“Sonny and Cher. Got ‘em with the ex-wife. But she didn’t want anything to do with them after, you know, I got sent up the river.”

“Her loss, huh?” Ian offered.

“Yeah. How’s about you, Milky? Have any pets with your ex? The Russian.”

Ian shook his head. He really wanted to show Paulie some respect and appreciation by engaging with him in conversation, but his thoughts kept drifting back to his visit with Mickey and what he’d really wanted to say. _Why didn't you think about our future before you got locked up?_ Or fuck that, _why didn’t you think about your future?_

“How’s your kid?” Paulie asked him.

“Huh. I honestly don’t know.” And he didn’t. He’d heard through Fiona, who’d heard from Kevin and V that Mickey had signed divorce papers recently. He was probably ready to close that chapter in his life, Yev included. 

But Ian missed the little guy, missed the way Mickey could be a softie around the tow-headed boy, especially when it was just the three of them. The brunet would convince Yev to eat his peas by making airplane sounds while he fed him. And he’d construct tall towers out of blocks, only to knock them down with head butts, which resulted in Yev giggling endlessly.

Those memories seemed like a lifetime ago and that slice of domestic life they'd created wasn’t sustainable. Back then, Mickey didn’t have time to be a father to Yev, not with Ian to look after, a grown-ass man who couldn’t take care of himself, couldn’t see through Monica’s bullshit when she’d convinced him to run away with her. 

At least she’d opened his eyes to how he could give Mickey a better life—one without him in it. So Ian had broken up with the man he loved, watched Mickey’s eyes well up with tears from the safety of his front porch. Ian thought he was being brave for the both of them. Maybe he would have gone back to Mickey a few days later, begging for another chance and promising to do whatever he had to so they could be together. _Maybe_. But too bad Mickey had already fucked things up and gotten carted off to jail.

And then kept fucking things up—taking that shitty plea bargain, pushing everyone away, and becoming part of a risky drug operation. What other stupid shit had Mickey gotten into? More importantly, what could Ian do to help him get his shit together?

“Milkman?”

Ian turned his attention back to Paulie and apologized for being distracted. “Sorry, man. Let’s talk later,” he said, before getting up to return his nearly empty tray and heading over to the infirmary for his evening meds.

He’d have to deal with Carter again. The guy was relentless. Apparently, Mickey was a really great lay, and yeah, that wasn’t news to Ian, though he’d never bottomed with Mickey. 

Was it too stupid and selfish to hope they’d have a chance at that level of intimacy again one day? Because, fuck, Ian had never felt more alive than when he was with Mickey...in _that_ way. And once their fucking had evolved into something more than just a physical release, it was like they belonged to each other. Ian had never come close to that feeling with anyone else. In fact, Caleb was becoming all but a distant memory.

Ian suddenly became aware of loud, angry voices somewhere ahead of him in line. It sounded like a fight was breaking out between two inmates, and everyone else seemed to have figured it out and formed a semi-circle around the two men, one of which Ian recognized as someone a friend of Damon's. _Cortez, maybe?_

Punches were being thrown, and the other inmates hooted and hollered, enjoying the free entertainment. Ian was looking around for the guards who should have arrived by now to break up the fight. When he turned his attention back to the two men on the ground, Ian realized that Cortez was bleeding profusely from his side. A few of the men had intervened and gotten the other inmate pinned against the wall. Ian yelled at the men in front of him to move, and he pushed his way over to Cortez, kneeling down beside him to assess the damage. 

The injured man was holding his side, fingers flailing over a wound that was gushing blood. Ian ripped open the snaps of his own uniform and rolled out of the sleeves, pulling his undershirt over his head to press against the wound. “Hang in there. We’re right near the infirmary.”

“Fuck! _That pendejo_!” Cortez shouted.

“No, no. Try not to talk or move.” Ian continued pressing the cloth against the wound, but it was becoming saturated. He glanced around and was relieved to see some guards handcuffing the other man and a stretcher being rolled towards Cortez. He pressed two fingers against the side of the man’s neck to check his pulse. 

“Step aside, inmate,” a loud voice commanded him.

Ian started to get up, but Cortez grabbed his wrist. “Thanks, _Miguelito_. I owe you one.”

The two medics maneuvered in between Ian and Cortez and loaded the injured man onto the stretcher.

“Puncture wound to the left lower quadrant, losing blood fast, pulse has slowed,” Ian managed to get out before they wheeled Cortez away. He realized everyone else was staring at him, and when Ian looked at his hands, he could see why—they were covered in blood, and he was standing there bare chested. After wiping the blood on the front of his uniform, Ian put his arms back inside his sleeves and re-snapped the front. 

“You okay?” Someone asked him. It was Carter. “Didn’t know you could do all that, man. Nice job. I’m thinking you deserve a reward.”

“Yeah. No thanks. I’m good,” mumbled Ian, still reeling from what had just transpired and confused as to why it took the guards so long to arrive.

“Let’s at least get you cleaned up, huh?” said Carter. 

Now that the commotion had died down, the line for nightly medications had re-formed. No one objected when Carter led a bloodied “Mickey” inside the infirmary and gave him access to the sink to wash up and then his dose of meds.

Once he returned to his cell, Paulie told him how word had already spread that “Mickey” saved a man’s life. The story had become exaggerated, of course, by the time it got around. Ian just hoped that Cortez was alright. 

A few hours later, Ian's heart rate was back to normal, and the adrenaline was no longer coursing through his body. Paulie had long ago fallen asleep, and Ian began to relax in the darkness of the cell, comforted by a sense of purpose, similar to how he felt when he pulled the woman from the burning car on the bridge. 

Before he drifted off to sleep, Ian’s last thoughts turned to Mickey and how badly he wanted to tell his ex what had happened, to share with him every single detail of his day. He’d missed that, having Mickey by his side, even when he was too manic to collect all of his thoughts and convey them in a manner that made any damn sense, even when he was too numb from his medications to feel anything other than apathy, it was always Mickey he could depend on. And then, when he couldn’t, because Mickey seemed so inaccessible and out of reach, maybe, just maybe, he should have tried harder?

^^^^^^^^^^

Ian got word the next morning that Cortez was okay and that his interventions had helped the inmate. Damon came by during breakfast to shake his hand, and thank him for taking care of his _tercero_ , or his third in command. Obviously, Mickey was his _segundo_ , although Ian had yet to break it to him that _Miguelito_ was going into an advisory role only.

“Damon, about the next shipment…”

“We’ll talk later. Okay, _ese_? Thanks again.”

“Yeah, ‘course. Any time,” Ian responded, and he noticed Paulie wink at him as Damon departed.

“What?” Ian asked him.

“Nothing,” Paulie shrugged with a slight smirk. “Just glad to see you gettin’ back to your old self. And I’m thinking I might know at least one of the reasons…”

“Fuck off, man,” Ian replied, unable to mask his smile any longer, already thinking ahead to the call he was going to make that afternoon.

Because it was a Sunday, there was only a morning work shift, and then Ian had some free time after lunch to test out the gym equipment before his call with Mickey. He did three reps on each of the machines, and accepted help on the bench press from someone who gave him a thumbs up for saving Cortez. Ian was impressed at how much he was able to lift as Mickey, chuckling to himself that, as Mickey, he’d surpassed his own record of 200 pounds. 

Still sweaty but feeling a sense of accomplishment, Ian arrived at the lines for the phones. A few of the inmates let him cut to the front, clapping “Mickey” on the back for helping out a fellow inmate. It was fucking surreal, and the whole thing with Cortez had distracted him momentarily from the predicament he and Mickey were in.

“It was unbelievable!” were the first words out of his mouth after Mickey accepted the call.

“Well, hello to you!” Mickey responded. “What was unbelievable?”

“Sorry. Hiya, Mick. I’m just excited ‘cause I got to help someone yesterday. That guy, Cortez, Damon’s buddy. He got shivved in the hallway.”

“Really? Cortez?” Mickey sounded impressed. “That dude always hated me ‘cause I’m so tight with Damon. Who knifed him?”

“Dunno, some beefy white dude with sideburns. Took the guards forever to get there.”

“Sounds like Polanski. Or one of his goons. Racist motherfuckers. He and his crew also deal. Bribe the guards, too. Fuck. Sounds like things are getting tense. Cortez okay?”

“Yeah, he’s gonna be alright.”

“That’s awesome, man. You and your EMT shit,” Mickey said warmly. “But...bad news on the machine front. I googled ‘Fairy Godmother’ and fortune teller machines. Got a bunch of hits for gay clubs and Disney merchandise. I’m ‘bout ready to break down and buy a fucking Fairy Godmother doll, and see if I can make a wish on that.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, guess we need to figure this shit out ourselves. The sooner the better. Need to get you outta there, Ian.”

“But at least you can stop worrying so much,” Ian insisted. “I can do this...for now. And I’m kinda thinking that I’m supposed to be in here. I’m kinda thinking there’s a reason for all this.”

“Ya think? Other than the universe fuckin’ with us?” Mickey asked dryly. “What’s your theory?”

And this was Ian’s chance. “First tell me about those letters you hid from Paulie.”

“Jesus! Couple of nosy fucks, the both of you.” Mickey sounded like he wanted to come across all pissy, but Ian wasn’t buying it. 

“Well?”

“Nothing special, just letters from Mandy, telling me about her life and shit. And Paulie was gettin’ on my nerves, asking too many damn questions about who they were from.”

“Where are the letters now? Should I call Mandy?”

“No.” Mickey sighed. “Let’s talk about it later.”

“But what if we can use whatever’s in those letters to make things right?”

“Don’t see how,” Mickey said dejectedly. “Just....just let me think about it.” 

“Okay.” Ian was sure he could get Mickey to change his mind. Eventually. But he also knew when to stop pushing. “Everything okay in Gallagher land?”

“Fuckin’ peachy. Frank’s still an asshole, and your niece only wakes up the whole house once a night.”

“How’s Debbie doing with being a mom?” Ian asked, struck with how much he missed his family and all of their chaos. He hated that he wasn’t going to be there for Fiona’s wedding.

“She’s managing, I guess.”

“How about Lip and Carl and Liam?”

“They’re fine, too,” Mickey answered quickly, sounding like he’d had his fill of Gallaghers. 

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Ian reminded him, already missing Mickey, missing _them_ , and feeling an ache in his chest that he’d tried to quiet months ago. But now, somehow, it didn’t hurt like before.

“Alright. Just stay the fuck out of trouble.. _.Florence Nightingale_.”


	14. Mickey

The past week had been a total head fuck, a life-altering, nightmare-ish, _is this really fucking happening?_ sort of week, but now Mickey was on edge for a completely different reason. It was Tuesday morning. As soon as he woke up and stretched his long-ass freckled arms, Mickey let out a loud groan, remembering that he’d given into Ian’s demands to see those damn letters. They’d talked again on Monday afternoon, and Ian wouldn’t let that shit go. Mickey had no choice but to comply, especially since Ian seemed convinced the letters could help their predicament.

He’d hesitated because revealing the whereabouts of Mandy’s letters meant Mickey was also giving away the location of drawings of Ian that he’d spent too many hours on, a photograph of his ex that he’d look at every once in a while, and a letter he’d written to Ian but never sent.

Mickey cringed at the memory of pouring his sad fucking heart out onto that blank page. He’d needed to get it out somehow, and anger-banging Carter only got him so far. Mickey never read the letter, never had the guts to send it, knew it was mostly pathetic ramblings, but he’d kept it anyway. 

And he could have asked Ian not to read it—his Boy Scout of an ex would have probably respected his privacy. But like Ian told him yesterday, _what was there left to hide?_

On top of everything else, Mickey would be busy all day with Fiona’s wedding and wouldn’t get to talk to Ian until their visit the next day. By then, Ian would know just how much Mickey had been hurting and missing him and feeling like he’d lost his best friend. Not that he couldn’t have figured that out already. It was pretty obvious how much Mickey cared about the guy. How many people hand-carved their lover’s names into their flesh? Fuck that extra “l” in Gallagher.

Speaking of Gallaghers, there’d been more bickering between Fiona and Debbie and a fist fight between Frank and Sean, the fiancé. But that Sean dude had held his own. As of four o’clock that afternoon, he would be a permanent fixture in the Gallagher house. 

There was also a good chance Lip would try to claim Ian’s single room, now that he’d gotten himself kicked out of school and would need a place to crash. _Over my dead body_ , decided Mickey. _Ian’s earned the right to have his own room._ He chuckled to himself, remembering the times they’d banged in Ian’s old room with an audience consisting of his little brothers. 

_Then again, it’s not like we used a bed that much._ Mickey let his mind wander back to the last time he and Ian had fucked—at the dugouts, after punching each other’s lights out. It had been fucking everything, after weeks of Ian being numb and distant, after weeks of pent up fear and anger and not understanding why this was happening, watching the person he loved crumble right in front of him. If Mickey had known that would be the last time he’d be with Ian _that way_ …

He opened his eyes, suddenly aware of how the hand previously tapping against Ian’s bare chest was moving in a specific direction towards the waistband of his boxers. _What the fuck, Milkovich? That shit’s getting you horny?_

Mickey rolled off the bed before he went any further and hopped into a pair of jeans, trying to get his mind off of Ian’s monstrous cock, the very cock he could just reach down and—

“Ian! Breakfast! Wake up!” yelled Carl from the other side of the door. _Little shit._

Mickey threw on a t-shirt and busted out of the room, catching up to Carl at the bottom of the steps and yanking on his shoulders to pull him into a headlock. “What are you, kid, my goddamn _mother_?”

They stumbled into the kitchen, where Fiona was clearing the dishes off the table from the early breakfast crew—Sean and Liam. She gave Mickey a funny look as he headed over to grab a cup of coffee.

“Did you say _‘mother_?’” she asked. “For fuck’s sake, don’t conjure Monica up today. I’d like my wedding to be free of both parental units.” Fiona looked towards Carl. “Right?”

“Uh, yeah. Ian was just giving me shit for disturbing his beauty rest,” Carl explained, taking a seat at the table while Mickey stood by the sink and drank his coffee in silence. _Probably better if I just shut the fuck up._

Sean kissed Fiona on the cheek and mumbled something about picking his kid up from the airport. Before heading out, he told everyone to be at the church by 2pm. Mickey picked up a warm pancake from the griddle and sat down across from Carl, who was stuffing his face from the plate Fiona had just served him. 

Mickey could tell her eyes were on him. She’d always had this way of knowing when shit was up.

“You missin’ Monica all of a sudden, Ian?”

Mickey sat up in the chair. “No. Fuck no. Why? All I said to Carl was—”

“You haven’t mentioned her in a while, ever since, you know, she got in your head about, well, Mickey...”

“Ian” nearly choked on his coffee, and Fiona thwacked him on the back. “You okay? Sorry! Didn’t mean to bring up your ex. I know you’re seeing somebody new. The firefighter, right? He comin’ to the wedding?”

“No,” croaked Mickey over the pain of his seared throat. “I dumped his ass.”

“Oh.” She offered him a sympathetic smile. “Maybe that’s why you’ve been kinda off lately, huh?” Fiona turned to Liam. “Let’s get you a bath, and then you can watch cartoons ‘til we head over to the church. And I expect your older brothers to be showered and ready to go soon.” She eyed “Ian” and Carl as she ushered Liam up the stairs.

“Shit, that was close,” said Carl as he washed down a giant-ass bite with some orange juice. 

“What was close?” Mickey asked. “She almost spill some shit that Ian said about me?”

“No, just seemed like Fiona was onto something,” Carl replied and then added, “Ian doesn’t talk about you.”

“Gee, thanks for the reminder,” Mickey huffed, feeling a new sting from the revelation that up until a week ago, Ian had moved the fuck on.

“I mean, not to _me,_ ” Carl clarified. “Probably to Fiona and Lip.”

Mickey must have been giving him a look because Carl kept trying to backtrack from his comment. 

“You know he cares about you, right? He told you to dump what’s-his-name.” 

Mickey had recently shared that piece of information with Carl, hoping to never revisit the topic of Ian’s firefighter boyfriend again. No such luck yet. “Whatever. Doesn’t mean anything. And I don’t give a fuck anyway. As soon as things are back to normal, he’ll probably try to get back with the dude. ‘Cause my ass’ll be rotting in the can again.” 

Mickey hated feeling—what was the word? _Insecure._ There was a time when he could never imagine his life without Ian. But that felt like a whole different lifetime to Mickey. And he didn’t want to get attached all over again, not if the guy was gonna stomp all over his heart.

Mickey asked Carl for a joint and went back to Ian’s room to wait for his turn in the bathroom. He figured he might as well go through the motions of this wedding shit—at least he could drink himself into oblivion at the after-party. He knew by now Ian would have retrieved his letters from the library. Mickey had hidden them in the pages of an outdated encyclopedia, the “I” volume, because what was anyone gonna ever need to reference in there? _Igloo?_

Ian was likely reading through his letters right now, huddled in a corner of the laundry room for some privacy, trying to find some way out of this, looking for some clue. _Good luck, pal. You won’t find much in there._

Once he heard Fiona and Liam make their way down the hall, Mickey hurried into the bathroom before Carl could claim it. He shaved and grabbed a quick shower, his hand lingering too long over parts of Ian that he wanted to touch, to feel reconnected, to have that wave of pleasure and release. But a Gallagher saved him again—Lip started pounding on the door. 

When Mickey let him into the bathroom, the guy made a beeline for the toilet and puked his guts out. On top of that lovely image, Mickey ran into Fiona and Debbie in the hallway screaming at each other while Franny was wailing at the top of her lungs. Mickey ducked into Ian’s room to smoke his joint, hoping that the wedding would be just as entertaining.

^^^^^^^^^^

 _The gang’s all here,_ thought Mickey, eyeing the rest of the wedding party scattered around the Alibi. It was now three hours after the ceremony was supposed to have happened. Frank had put the kibosh on the wedding in the most Frank way possible, outing Sean for being a dope fiend, which led to absolutely no one saying “I do.” 

Maybe Fiona would be better off in the long run, but for now, she was over at V’s crying her eyes out, most likely. Everyone else had relocated to the Alibi after making a pit stop, aka dumping Frank off a bridge, which was satisfying as fuck. _Eh, might as well add actual murder to my rap sheet. At least it was a joint effort._

“What a shitshow,” Mickey muttered to himself, throwing back his umpteenth shot and trying to decide if he wanted to go see Iggy, knowing he might run into Terry. He’d had enough of the Gallaghers for one day. Svetlana, too. His skanky ex-baby mama had weaseled her way into the wedding party. At least she’d had the decency not to try to make small talk. Kev, on the other hand, not as skilled at reading social cues, was taking “Ian’s” silence as an invitation to chat him up.

“No plus one today, huh, Ian?”

Mickey held his breath and balled his hand into a fist, waiting for another goddamn question about Caleb. “Nope.”

But Kev seemed clueless...and wasted. “I had two dates. Pretty impressive, huh? V and Lana. And damn, you know, V is the best, but Lana’s got some moves, too. I mean, fuck! Mickey ever tell you about—” The big idiot stopped himself from saying anything else.

“Don’t think _Mickey_ was all that impressed, but hey, congrats to you! Have fun with that one! Just watch your back.” Mickey stood up and slapped Kevin’s shoulder with as much affection as he could muster, considering he was beyond done with the shit-show of a day, drunk, and anxious about seeing Ian the next day. 

He paused by the door when he felt the vibration of a text notification from Ian’s phone. He clicked on the screen and realized the text was from Mandy.

_Hey, you. Thanks for your help a few weeks ago. I hope this is okay to share, but I have some good news about Mickey. He’s finally agreed to talk to my lawyer friend!_

_Mandy_. God, he missed her. He should call her right now, try to meet up, try to talk her out of—

“That fucker!” Mickey yelled, the neurons in his jumbled brain finally making some sense out of her text. He kicked a nearby chair, and it crashed to the floor.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mickey saw Carl untangle himself from the clingy arms of his girlfriend and come over to where he’d stopped in his tracks. “You okay... _Ian_?” 

Mickey realized that the rest of the Alibi had gone silent—even Franny had stopped crying—to see what the random commotion was about. Carl smiled at everyone, and pointed in “Ian’s” general direction. “Relationship issues.”

Carl grabbed their coats off the rack and escorted Mickey out of the front door—the kid was surprisingly strong, and Mickey was mightily wasted. 

_“What is it?”_ Carl hissed. “You need to calm the fuck down.”

Mickey shook Carl’s hand off his shoulder. “Your goddamn brother meddling in my shit. He has no fuckin’ right!”

“ _Ian_? How much can he do behind bars?”

“Plenty,” growled Mickey, finally accepting Ian’s coat.

“Well, you can talk to him tomorrow,” the kid reminded him. “But pull yourself together. Lip’s drunk off his ass, and now I gotta worry about you, too? Remember, Ian can't drink on his meds. So quit!”

“Yes, sir,” Mickey said, over enunciating his reply. He wasn’t finished getting his drink on, but he didn’t need Carl looking out for him. “I’ll see ya ‘round, lady killer.”

^^^^^^^^^^

Mickey didn’t make it over to the Milkovich house that night. Instead, he stopped at a convenience store for a bottle of whiskey. Being the masochist that he was, Mickey decided it would be a good idea to pay a visit to the ballfield.

He managed to hop the fence, stumble over to the shelter of the dugouts, and plant his ass on the cold cement. He leaned back to take a swig from his bottle, his upper back pressed against the wooden bench, and all irony was not lost on Mickey Milkovich when he looked up at the stars. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity of his situation. 

Mickey wanted to be angry at Ian. That fucker had combed through Mandy’s letters, seen the ones where she’d begged him to get new legal counsel, told him about one of her “Johns” who was a lawyer, and though Mickey had no faith or trust in the system whatsoever, now his do-gooder ex was gonna try to get him out. What gave him the right, anyway? He didn’t need Ian Gallagher’s fucking pity, or his charity, or anything else from anyone who—

 _Wait, what’s happening? Why am I—?_ Mickey ran his fingers over Ian’s cheeks. They were cold to the touch and wet. He put his hand on Ian’s chest and felt it rise and fall, felt his breath catch in his throat, and a low sob rising from his gut, causing him to double over, eventually landing on his side with his cheek pressed against the freezing concrete.

_I loved you. I love you. I still fucking love you. You piece of shit bastard, why did you leave me?_

When Mickey came to a few hours later, shivering in the early morning air, hands shoved in his coat pockets, probably on the brink of freezing to death, he couldn’t remember if he’d shouted those last words or just played them in his head, over and over again, until he’d passed out. Despite the throbbing pain in his head and his aching back, Mickey managed to pull himself up, kicking at the half empty bottle at his feet. Should he call someone? Or could he make it back to the Gallagher house? _No, I can do it—just have to get over that damn fence._

It took him a few tries and he’d practically landed on his face, but he’d made it over. After crawling into a seated position and working his way onto his feet, Mickey felt a sudden lightness he couldn’t quite describe. Oh, he was still pissed about Ian going behind his back and definitely not at all hopeful that it would do any good, but it was something, wasn’t it? It was something.

^^^^^^^^^^

On his drive over to the prison, Mickey’s thoughts were all over the place. _What do I say to him? Do I tell him that Mandy texted? Did he go through all my shit? Read my letter to him? Is the fucker okay? Did I really piss myself last night at the dugouts?_

He realized this would be his third visit to see Ian, which made a total of six, three back when he was Mickey, and Ian was Ian. The redhead had visited him twice while he was in prison and one other time at the county jail a few days before he’d agreed to that shitty plea bargain.

Mickey, not a guy anyone had ever described as optimistic, had tried to hold out hope that Ian just needed to come out of the haze of being back on his meds. Up until that first visit at the jail, they’d talked a few times on the phone—short, forced conversations, where it seemed like Ian was trying to get off the line. But even still, Mickey had needed to believe Ian wasn’t really done with him. 

It was the first time Mickey had laid eyes on Ian since the day the police had carted his ass off to jail, and it nearly broke him. Ian had cried during the entire visit. Not bawling or ugly crying, just a soft, simpering, steady stream of tears, and for the first time in a long time, Mickey didn’t know what to do or say. But he knew the reason for the tears. Ian had already said it once, and there he was again, wanting to put the final nail in the coffin, or more accurately, dig the grave and push the coffin inside, and bury what was left between them deep into the ground.

After that visit, he hadn’t expected to see Ian again, had decided to give up on them, just like Ian had, but then he came back. That second visit, Mickey had already been transferred to prison, narrowly avoiding doing time while Terry was there.

Ian came with Svetlana and Yev and seemed genuinely happy to see Mickey. He had a brightness in his green eyes, this spark. It had driven Mickey to do really stupid shit, like believe they still had a chance and carve that fucking tattoo into his chest. 

But nope, Ian came back to visit one final time with Svetlana, saying she’d paid him and looking and acting completely done. Mickey realized he’d just been taken for a goddamn ride again, on the Ian Gallagher _crazy_ train, and he’d felt guilty for even thinking that word— _crazy_ —after teaching himself not to say that about Ian, not to label him that way. Oh well, he’d figured it didn’t fucking matter anymore. 

Now they were both crazy, weren’t they—living in some kind of warped reality? Mickey wasn’t sure how much longer they could do this, but Ian seemed to be managing. The fucker was actually smiling when he took a seat across from Mickey. _Smiling._

“So, is Fiona hitched?” was the first thing Ian said when Mickey picked up the receiver. His blue eyes were shining, a warmth to them that Mickey had never seen when he looked at his own reflection in the mirror.

“Frank fucked everything up.”

“What happened?” Ian was still grinning, blissfully unaware of his sister’s broken heart. “Everyone get food poisoning from the caterer Frank picked out?”

“It’s a long story, but basically, Frank outed Sean for still using, and they called off the wedding,” Mickey explained. But he was suddenly annoyed with Ian’s casual attitude. “Look, can we stop fuckin’ pretending everything is normal right now? Like I’m really here for a goddamn chit chat?”

In that moment, the man sitting across from him didn’t look like Mickey at all—he had the wide, puppy dog eyes of one, Ian Gallagher. “Sorry, Mick. I’m not, I’m just...trying to make the best of this.”

“C’mon, man. This is so fucked up.” Mickey felt like his insides were about to explode. He couldn’t explain it, but everything he’d been wanting to say for the longest time was circling around in his guts. “I found out about what you did. Mandy texted me.”

“Oh. Shit.” Ian had this guilty look on his face. “You mean...with the lawyer? Wait, she did? Like, yesterday?”

Mickey nodded, waiting for an explanation.

“Well, I kinda wanted to surprise you. Stupid, huh?”

“Real fucking stupid. And it won’t do any good,” Mickey said blankly.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Ian got quiet, looked down at his hands, traced the “F” on his finger. 

Mickey figured now might be the time to ask him about the letter he’d written, to try to tell him about how much of a fucking emotional rollercoaster the redhead had put him through. But Ian spoke first. 

“You don’t belong in here, Mick. Wish you’d never gotten mixed up with Sammi and her shit in the first place. Never understood why you thought that would fix anything.”

“Fix anything?” Mickey was seeing red. “Oh, I’m the one who was out of line for fucking with the bitch who fucked us both over?”

Ian looked angry now. The way he gritted his teeth was very familiar to Mickey. “I didn’t _need_ you to fuck with Sammi, I needed you to be there after I got Monica out of my head. She’s the one who told me I should break up with you.”

Mickey slapped his hands down onto the counter. “Stop blaming that woman for your issues. _You_ gave up on us, not her. _You_ acted like I was the fucking dirt on your shoes that you couldn’t wait to kick off as soon as you had the chance.”

Ian shook his head and said forcefully, “That’s not what happened!” Then the fucker was staring back at him again, all hopeful and shit. “But I’m glad you said something. We need to do this, Mick. I need to know how you feel. Fucking finally...”

“Ha! How I feel? How I feel?” Mickey knew his voice was at an all time high, but the fucking nerve of this guy.

The guard posted on the visitors side cleared his throat and bellowed, “Quiet over there!”

Mickey wasn’t about to get told to leave, so he nodded in agreement at the guard, lowering his voice as he spoke into the receiver. “Did you read the letter I wrote to you?”

“No. I found it, but I didn’t want to read it without your permission.”

“Fucking Boy Scout. I shoulda known. Well, curl up tonight in your bunk and dive in. I don’t even remember what I fuckin’ wrote, but it sure as hell wasn’t how much I was missin’ you!”

Ian had his arms crossed over his chest, looking as defiant as ever. “Fine. I will.”

The truly bizarre thing about all of this was that Mickey wasn’t nearly as full of rage as he was putting on, and he knew that Ian knew it. Back in the day, they would’ve banged after a heated argument. And though this was some serious shit they were gonna have to wade through, there was no point in drowning—they’d have to figure out how to get to the other side together.

Ian leaned in closer to the glass. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. Fuckin’ call me tomorrow, ‘cause we ain’t done with this.”

Mickey caught a flicker of a smile before Ian shook his head and the buzzer sounded. “Can’t. I’ll call you Friday. Gotta meet up with your new lawyer tomorrow.”

 _Sneaky bastard_. 

But it was something, wasn’t it? It was something.


	15. Ian

Ian had lied to Mickey. Just a little. Just three sentences worth of a lie. That’s how far he’d read into Mickey’s letter before stopping. He’d almost missed finding it, tucked away in the very last two pages of the encyclopedia, volume “I.” 

The “Dear asshole” at the beginning was a dead giveaway that Mickey had intended it for him. Then there was the part about wishing he’d beat the crap out of Ian with the tire iron instead of them banging, and how that one decision, made hastily in the heat of the moment, had led to years of misery. 

Ian knew Mickey didn’t mean it—not literally—though he figured the rest of the letter would be filled with rage, maybe even hurtful shit about Ian’s mental illness. Nothing derogatory, but probably Mickey wishing he’d never gotten caught up in all his shit. Because if Ian had never run off to join the Army, crashed the helicopter, gone AWOL, and later confided in Sammi, then she never would have fucked him over, and Mickey never would have sought revenge and landed in prison. Then again, with that same logic, Ian never would have run away to join the Army if Mickey hadn’t married Svetlana. And a whole lot of other fucked-up shit that neither of them could change. 

When all was said and done, Ian reflected back on what Lip had said about “self preservation.” They'd been doing it their whole lives, hadn’t they? The times he and Mickey had been willing to let their walls down—for the same period of time—were few and far between, fleeting, ill-timed. 

But this thing that was happening now—well, there was no escape, no running away. And Ian hadn’t stopped reading Mickey's letter because he was afraid to know what it said; he actually _did_ want Mickey’s permission, and thankfully, he got it. He wanted to do this the right way, whatever that might look like.

Granted, he was taking some liberties with their situation, pulling away from Mickey’s illicit prison dealings and reaching out to Mandy about the lawyer. Didn’t he owe it to Mickey to make things better, to prove to Mickey that he had a future? And maybe, just maybe, Ian needed to prove to himself that he could bring something good into his ex’s life.

Anyway, he’d wanted to surprise Mickey with the lawyer stuff, but it made sense that Mandy had texted “Ian” to tell him. When he’d called her as Mickey, she had been genuinely happy to hear from her brother, and then shocked when he’d accepted her offer for help. 

Ian had kept the conversation light, feeling slightly guilty for posing as Mickey when he would have preferred to confess everything to his oldest friend. It would be too much though, too much to explain, too much for Mandy. Maybe he could tell her one day.

The lawyer guy, Dan, had already arranged an in-person meeting for Thursday to discuss an appeal. Ian figured he’d wait on telling Mickey anything else until there was more information, but just to hear the relief in Mandy’s voice had made the whole ordeal worth it.

As far as Mickey’s letter was concerned, Ian decided that reading it was going to be like ripping off a Band-Aid. He needed to get it over with, and he needed to know exactly what was going through Mickey’s head, instead of trying to imagine his thoughts.

To some extent, he was living it. Prison was absolutely dehumanizing and depressing, and Ian knew he’d barely scratched the surface after only being there for just over a week. He couldn’t imagine facing eight to fifteen _years_ of this place. Yeah, Mickey was a survivor, someone who could adapt to his surroundings and even thrive under the shittiest of circumstances, push his feelings of loneliness and loss deep enough to get on with things, but it still sucked to hell. 

After dinner, Ian told Paulie he needed some quiet time to go through the letters he’d kept out of sight, and he went ahead and confirmed what Paulie was probably thinking. Yes, it had to do with Ian, and yes, he wanted to find a way for the two of them to reconnect. That earned him a nod of approval from Paulie and time to sit in the corner of his bunk with the faded sheet of paper in hand, covered in rows of Mickey’s angry scrawl. _Here goes nothing..._

**_Dear asshole,_**

**_You came to visit the other day, but I could tell you didn’t want to be there. Made me wish I’d beat the crap out of you with that tire iron instead of us banging. Funny how one decision can turn into years of shit._**

**_But what’s done is done. I’m in here for trying to make someone who fucked with you pay for it, and I’m the one who got fucked. Mainly, by you. Or your fucking disorder . Let me take a minute to call out the real asshole here—your bipolar shit. It’s not your fault, I know. Not completely._**

**_Still, you’re the one who decided I’m not good enough. That you don’t believe I can handle whatever shit lies ahead._**

**_I mean, I heard what you said a few months ago about wanting to spare me and all that bullshit. But you and I both know that was a load of crap. You wanted to be free of me. Plain and simple._**

**_Guess I reminded you of all the fuck-ups and failures in your life, all the shit that was holding you down. And you needed to be free of me, didn’t even love me, not enough to tell me anyway._**

**_And I never got the chance to tell you what I really thought. Remember? Your skanky ass half-sister was shooting at me, and you just stood there. Never came after me, like you barely fucking cared. Then I got locked up. Didn’t say much when I’d call._**

**_When you finally came to see me, you were all fucking sad ‘cause it was over for you. I could tell you didn’t want to kick me when I was down, so I guess you ain’t a complete asshole. Still let me down. No way around it._**

**_It’s so goddamn stupid. I still fucking love you. There, I said it. You’re a part of me, can’t fucking shake you no matter how hard I try. And I miss your ass. No one’s been there for me like you have. Doesn’t matter how many so-called friends I have in here, ‘cause it’s not real, it’s survival. You were always more than that._**

**_I know you want to move on. Probably won’t see you for a while. Well, good luck with all your shit. And having whatever kind of life you want without me. A better one?_**

**_Don’t think I’ve ever written anyone a fucking letter, so congratulations. Doubt I’ll send this to you. What’s the point?_**

**_You know what sucks the most? I won’t stay mad forever. Can’t. That’s the really fucked-up part. What can I say? Except, fuck you, Gallagher._**

**_Look, I do know how to spell your fucking name._**

**_Mickey_**

Ian pressed the letter against his chest and sunk down into his bed, a steady stream of tears spilling down his cheeks, realizing he never got through to Mickey about why he wanted to put distance between them. And maybe Mickey had been right, that seeing him, that being with him did sometimes remind Ian of all the shit they’d been through—but more so, all the shit he’d put Mickey through. 

Ian should have been stronger. He should have pushed harder for Mickey to understand. He should have, at the very least, let Mickey know he cared. _Something._

That’s what Ian had wanted to do—those times he’d gone to visit Mickey—let him know how all of this was killing him and that he did love Mickey, but the words were too hard to say. Ian was fighting an internal battle that meant losing either way—dragging both of them down into a hole they’d never be able to climb out of or dragging himself out of the muck, alone, without Mickey. He had been wrong, though. He could see that now. Maybe they would have fallen, but they would have been able to find a way out.

Ian couldn’t be sure how much time had passed, maybe an hour or so, but he was certain Paulie had figured out he’d been crying like a little bitch. It was probably killing his cellmate not to ask, but he’d stayed silent, just muttering a “good night” after the lights went out and falling asleep with his usual rhythmic snoring. It was probably the nicest thing Paulie could do, under the circumstances—just give “Mickey” some space.

There wasn’t much chance that Ian was going to get any sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, a different image of Mickey appeared, hunched over by the stacks in the library, or in the corner of the laundry room, or at a table in the cafeteria, his lunch tray pushed over to the side, pen in hand, as bitter words spilled onto the paper.

Maybe it was wishful thinking, maybe it was just another lie Ian told himself to feel better, but maybe, just maybe Mickey’s face had softened when he paused between the words he was writing and realized who he was writing to and everything they’d been through...together.

^^^^^^^^^^

It was Thursday, and the time had come to meet with the lawyer. Ian followed the guard to yet another unfamiliar part of the prison, down a hallway with four windowed doors, two on each side. He caught a glimpse of who he assumed was Mandy’s friend, Dan, a slender guy in his early forties, probably tall, but seated it was hard to tell. The guy had a decent amount of light brown hair, combed neatly to the side and a pair of glasses, positioned halfway down his nose as he stared at some papers intently.

“It’s your golden ticket, Milkovich,” snarked the guard, cracking the door and gesturing for him to go inside. Ian had started coming up with nicknames for the various guards, based on appearance rather than their actual names. _Thanks a lot, Overbite,_ he thought to himself.

Dan rose up from his seat and extended his hand. Ian, deciding to play a more polite version of Mickey, accepted it, though he was watching the guy warily. 

“Mickey, right? Your sister told me you prefer ‘Mickey’ and not _Mikhailo_.”

“That’s right, Dan-o.” Ian began to wonder if one of the reasons Mickey had never accepted help from this guy was the fact that Mandy knew him through her escort service. It wasn’t sitting well with Ian, so he could only imagine the kind of restraint the actual Mickey would have to show. “How d’ya know Mandy?”

Of course, “Mickey” already knew the answer. And they both knew that he knew the answer.

“Amanda’s a friend of mine. I stay pretty busy with my work, so I don’t have time for dating or any long-term commitment and she understands that. When she told me about your situation, I offered to see what I could do to help you.”

“Mighty generous of you,” Ian replied with a hint of sarcasm in his tone, but then decided he would be better off being friends with Dan. “She speaks highly of you. So long as you’re good to her…”

Dan pushed his glasses higher up on his nose. “Well, yes. I try to be.” He cleared his throat, probably to fill the awkward silence, before changing the topic back to Mickey. “I’ve been reviewing your case. What a mess! The public defender assigned to you was a real piece of work. I’ve heard of the guy before—Jonathan Wells. He’s since been disbarred. Had some shady dealings with a cartel.”

“S’that a good thing for me?”

“Maybe,” replied Dan. “The state’s reviewing his cases from the last three years. They would’ve gotten to yours eventually, but the crime you pled guilty to wasn’t related to the cartel.”

“Well, no.”

Dan leaned in closer, elbows pressed into the table. “How about in here? Are you keeping your nose clean?”

“Y-yeah,” Ian mumbled, quite unconvincingly. That was his plan anyway. “Mostly.”

“Good. You’ve had some shots and a couple of nights in solitary confinement, so you need to stay out of trouble going forward.”

Ian scratched the side of his head. “Does any of that really matter?”

“It could. I think we have enough here to appeal your sentence. I need to pull some more information together.”

All of this sounded promising, but Ian didn’t want to celebrate too soon. “How much is this gonna cost me?”

“I’ll work something out with your sister.”

Ian shook his head adamantly. “No, no. I don’t want her making any sacrifices. I’ll find a way to pay you back. Really. She’s done enough for me.”

Dan nodded. “I understand, and I’ll give you a reduced rate for my services. The best thing you can do right now is keep your head down and do your time. Deal?” he asked.

“Deal,” Ian promised.

^^^^^^^^^^

The minutes crept by that next morning. Breakfast wasn’t actually disgusting for once, probably because it was near impossible to ruin an Eggo waffle, the taste, anyway. Ian remembered how Fridays used to be a relief—the last day before welcoming the weekend and doing whatever the fuck he wanted. Not so in prison.

It had been strange not talking to Mickey the day before. The lawyer thing was necessary, but nothing beat the sound of Mickey’s voice. Ian continued looking forward to their calls and visits. It gave him hope that he could make it through this, and at the same time, reminded him of that same hope he’d taken from Mickey by exiting his life. 

When Mickey accepted his call that afternoon, there was so much Ian wanted to say. There was the promising information Dan had given him, and there was also the conversation **TM** they needed to have—the one where Ian would spill his guts and confess how much he loved Mickey, still did, and had never stopped, he just thought he knew what was best for both of them. 

But he knew better than to do it right out of the gate. First, Ian needed to find out if Fiona was okay after whatever shit went down at her wedding. Yeah, there was fuck all he could do about it, but he still wanted to know.

“Hey, Mick,” he began, and accepted the grunt from Mickey as a greeting. “How’s Fiona? Didn’t get a chance to ask you the other day.”

Mickey cleared his throat, and Ian heard him release his breath. This was a much safer topic to start out with. 

“Figured you might be worried. Fiona and Sean are kaput. She’s been in her room, mostly, all depressed and shit. We’ve been taking shifts, trying to get her to eat. It’s not great, but it’s not as bad as, you know, when you...”

 _Oh, fuck. Poor Fiona._ For all the ways his big sister had been smothering him before the whole body swap thing, Ian never wanted her to get hurt by Sean or any other douchebag. “Thanks, Mick. That’s really decent of you.”

“No big deal. I mean, you been looking out for Mandy all these years. It’s what we do.”

“Yeah...Mandy,” Ian agreed softly. “Her lawyer friend is pretty good. Knows his shit.” He was hoping he might pique Mickey’s interest, but he was even harder to read over the telephone.

“Great.” 

No such luck. “Did you text Mandy back?” Ian asked, instead of pursuing the topic for the moment.

“Naw, not yet.”

“Maybe you could meet up with her?” Ian suggested. He figured it would be good for both of them, although probably a challenge for Mickey to have to pretend to be Ian with her. Sure, the two siblings were close, but in a different way than how Ian and Mandy were close.

“Maybe.”

This was the quietest Mickey had been since this whole thing started. Was he nervous? Unsure of what to say? Not ready to hear what Ian had to say about what was on both of their minds?

“So...what else is new? Still hanging out with Carl?”

“Me and Carl? That really how you wanna fill our time?” Mickey asked with a forced laugh. “How ‘bout you tell me if you read my letter?”

 _Okay, here we go._ “Yeah. I did.”

“And?”

Ian gripped the receiver, unsure where to begin. “Well...you really know how to say a lot with just a few words.” He braced himself for Mickey’s response, but Mickey surprised him with a more joking tone. 

“Guessing it wasn’t a literary masterpiece.” 

Ian felt a knowing smile creep across his lips. Sometimes Mickey didn’t realize how fucking amazing he actually was. “It was honest. And way more kind than you could have been.”

“Probably sounded like an idiot.” Mickey’s tone was somber now, full of regret. “Wish I’d thrown the damn thing away.” 

In that moment, Ian wanted more than anything to be standing next to Mickey, close enough to put his arms around him and reassure him about how much his ex meant to him. “I’m glad you didn’t. I needed to read it. And I know those weren’t things you could say out loud. Not that I ever gave you the chance,” Ian admitted. “Can we talk about it now?”

“What more is there to say?”

Ian wanted to laugh at how poorly they communicated—knowing they needed to talk shit out but at least one of them not quite ready or willing. They had a knack for getting in the way of themselves. “Well, I, for one, have a lot to say...”

“You do, huh?”

“Yes, but only if you wanna hear it...”

“Hmmm.” Mickey paused like he was debating whether he, in fact, did. “Okay. I’ll hear you out. In person, though. When I come up tomorrow. That is, if you’re available. No meetings with any fancy lawyers?”

 _Shit_. Ian really needed to get some things off his chest now, and he knew deep down that the longer they waited, the longer they were going to be stuck. But Mickey had a point. They should do this in person. Face to face.

“Fine. But I don’t want any more time to pass with you thinking...with you not knowing…” Ian pushed himself to say part of what he needed to say. “I’ve missed you. So goddamn much. I know now that what I did to you doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” agreed Mickey. 

Ian sucked in his breath, unsure of what to say. But like always, Mickey didn’t leave him hanging.

“But I’ll get there. _Maybe_. See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, Mick.” Ian breathed a sigh of relief. “Tomorrow.”

On the way back to his cell, Ian felt the tiniest bit of hope for a future with Mickey. “Maybe” had possibilities, didn’t it? Okay, not when your mom said it to get you to stop asking for a candy bar at the grocery store.

But well, someone like Mickey wouldn’t say it unless he actually meant it.


	16. Mickey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.....................not sure how to tag this one, but just in case you might find part of this chapter a little "icky," be warned. 
> 
> To put it mildly, Mickey is going to spank the monkey. Ahem. In Ian's body. Without Ian around. I don't know what to call that, but if you can think of anything for the tags, let me know.

It had been a rough couple of days at the Gallagher house, what with Fiona heartbroken and out of commission, Lip drunk off his ass, and Debbie trying to figure out her school situation with a baby on her hip. Liam was mostly glued to the TV, though Mickey had taken it upon himself to make sure the youngest Gallagher was fed. 

And then there was Carl, so in love and generally useless. The teenage punk had paid Mickey a visit right after dinner that Friday needing some advice. Mickey didn’t have much else going on, other than re-playing the conversation he’d had with Ian over and over again in his mind. 

“Sup, Carl?” he asked, thinking about heading over to the Alibi but realizing he had burned through most of Ian’s limited funds.

“She wants me to get cut.”

“Huh?”

“Dominique. She doesn’t like the extra skin on my dick,” Carl mumbled while shuffling his feet awkwardly. 

“The fuck?! Like a circumcision? Fuck that. Don’t do it!” Mickey yelled, startling the kid. 

“W-why not?”

Mickey rolled his eyes like it was so fucking obvious. “You shouldn’t mutilate yourself for a damn woman.”

“But Ian said you fucked up your chest with a misspelled tattoo of his name.”

“He told you about that? _Asshole.”_ Mickey wanted to be able to laugh at that botched tattoo, and maybe someday he would, but today was not that day. “Sure as hell wouldn’t cut my junk for him.”

“Wait. You’re not, uh...so you still have your whole thing?”

Mickey nodded. “Everything’s there. Like the day I was born. Look, bitches come and go, but your dick is your dick. Just sayin’.” And he wanted to kick the kid out of his room for being such a dumbass, but instead, he decided to invite him out, wrapping an arm around Carl and punching his shoulder. “Let’s go to the Alibi. We can poll everyone there about cuttin’ your dick. Drinks on you.”

“But I have a date with Dominique,” Carl protested.

“Too fuckin’ bad. I need to get out of this house.” And it was settled.

^^^^^^^^^^

Well, that had been an interesting few hours at the Alibi, Mickey realizing that he—as in Mickey—was in the minority with his uncut dick. But he played along as Ian, of course, when Kevin and Tommy started asking every dude in the bar about their cocks. Svetlana was so kind as to mention how her ex was uncut, but she shut her mouth after seeing the death glare “Ian” gave her. 

Carl only stayed for an hour or so before running off to see his girlfriend, but he’d paid for a couple of beers, which Mickey enjoyed to the fullest. It was almost enough to take the edge off a generally fucked up and bizarre situation that didn’t seem to have an end.

Mickey made it back to the Gallagher house without incident, only all this talk about cocks had made him horny. There really was only one cock he loved, probably more than this own, and he happened to be literally attached to it. And dammit, after stripping off his shirt and staring at Ian’s reflection in the bathroom mirror if he wasn’t starting to feel a little turned on.

 _I’ve missed you. So goddamn much._ Mickey said the words out loud to the mirror as he watched the way Ian’s lips moved. He felt the vibrations in his throat and remembered the longing, the almost desperate way Ian had sounded over the phone, needing Mickey to believe him. 

As he continued taking in his reflection, Mickey had one thought: _Damn, Gallagher is hot_. He remembered what first got him going about the guy—definitely his red hair and those fuckin’ freckles. Or was it the fact that Gallagher looked like a total pussy, but he’d actually had the balls to go toe-to-toe with Mickey, scrappy and awkward as fuck, but Southside through and through.

The once-gangly teenager had grown into a man. His shoulders were unmistakably broader than that last time they’d banged. Mickey’s gaze traveled downward past his well-sculpted pecs to the contour of Ian’s slight six pack and followed the trail of auburn hair that went down, down to... _oh shit_.

Mickey splashed some water on his face, picked up Ian’s shirt to dry off, and then retreated to Ian’s room. _What the fuck am I doing? I need to be serious right now. I need to think about what I’m gonna say to Ian tomorrow. How I’m gonna tell him...well, fuck! What exactly do I need to tell him?_

It was a strange thing, Mickey suddenly feeling like his mind was being controlled by someone else’s dick. Wouldn’t be the first time Mickey got distracted by the nine inches hanging between Ian Gallagher’s legs. Only he was used to looking at it from a different angle and having access to it in a completely different way. 

_Fucking hell._ He needed the release. He wanted Ian, he wanted to make Ian come and watch as _he_ made it happen. Yeah, he’d have to beg for his ex’s forgiveness tomorrow, but Mickey figured he deserved some credit for holding out this long.

He locked the door behind him and immediately stripped off his jeans and boxers. Mickey looked down at the semi he was already sporting, letting out a soft moan in anticipation of what he was about to do. Glancing at his reflection in the mirror on the back of the door, Mickey realized that his mouth was hanging open, tongue practically wagging. _God, I need this._ And maybe it was selfish and maybe even a little bit wrong, but he was too far gone now to stop himself. 

Ian’s cock bounced up and down as Mickey made his way over to the nightstand where he (thankfully) found some lube. He stretched out on the bed, facing the mirror so he could witness every brush of his hand over Ian’s rosy red nipples, every stroke of his hand as he pumped Ian’s perfect cock, giving special attention to the head, massaging the precum from the slit up and down his shaft, arching back into the pillow and biting into his fist so that his groan couldn’t be heard down the hallway. _Fuck, Ian. I’ve missed you. So goddamn much._

A lot of the sex they’d had over the years—and it was a lot—was quick, frantic, and needy in a horny teenage boy sorta way. And then, looking back on when they were together after Ian was home from the Army, the redhead had been manic for a large portion of that time. Mickey would try his damndest to keep up with Ian’s frequent demand for sex. No matter what was going on around them—baby mama drama or a suitcase explosion in the living room—Ian was always so focused when they were having sex. It was the first time Mickey even dared to _think_ the words “making love,” just from the way Ian would look at him with so much desire. Ian wanted to please him, wanted that affirmation that everything was alright between them. 

Mickey remembered one night in particular. They’d gone at it for two or three rounds. Mickey had drifted off to sleep for some unknown amount of time before being awoken from a shallow dream, by the words Ian whispered into his ear. And a familiar prodding of something warm on the back of his thigh.

“Touch me, Mick,” Ian breathed. “Want you to feel how hard I am for you.”

And Mickey, feeling so desired and cared for and fucking euphoric—though fairly spent—had reached a hand behind him and grasped Ian’s cock, fully determined to jerk him to release for the umpteenth time. He’d rotated his body just enough to get a firm hold, and added a hand to the head of Ian’s cock, just like he was doing now, amazed at how, even with both hands, he was just covering the surface area of the damn thing. It was all coming back to him, how his mouth had started to water at the thought of Ian entering him, already stretched out and raw, but nothing in that moment could convince Mickey that he didn’t absolutely _need_ Ian inside of him.

And that’s when Mickey in his current form, so close to coming, memories of tenderness and lust flooding his vision, pulled a hand away from Ian’s cock and dabbed some lube on his fingers to slowly push inside of Ian, shuddering at the sensation, at the view of Ian spread open, both hands jerking wantonly, Ian’s beautiful pale skin, peppered with red blotches from the carnal heat he was radiating.

Mickey squeezed the base of Ian’s cock, wanting to slow things down, to really focus on how it felt to rub his fingers up and down Ian’s smooth, cut dick, feeling the sensitive tingles as he rubbed his thumb back and forth over the head. He moaned softly as he used more of Ian’s precum to glide his hand over the throbbing vein on the underside of Ian’s cock.

His mind suddenly drifted to the image of Ian attempting the very same thing with Mickey’s body, sprawled out on his bunk in the darkness, murmuring “yes, yes” under his breath. He wanted Ian to feel free to pleasure himself, to enjoy Mickey’s body the way that he had so many times before, to touch his body all over and press his fingers deep inside of Mickey.

The idea of Ian taking what he wanted and giving Mickey’s body some attention for his own gratification sent Mickey into a new frenzied state of wildly stroking Ian and pushing a third finger inside. He crooked it just so, grazing over his sensitive spot. _So close._ Mickey tried to keep his eyes open so that he could watch Ian’s face as he came, remembering the way Ian would throw his head back, lips parted as he moaned with his eyes squeezed shut.

But the pleasure was too intense. Mickey felt his balls tighten and the first spurt of cum land on his belly. His entire body began convulsing and with his own eyes shut tight, he felt everything more intensely, the euphoria, the sweet relief. _Shit, that was intense._ He stayed motionless for a few minutes, slowly coming down from the greatest high he’d felt in months.

After catching his breath and passing a finger languidly through the cum that had pooled just below Ian’s navel, Mickey was faced with another feeling—guilt. 

_Hmmm. Not sure what the rules are here. So I’ll just tell him. I’ll tell Ian I was horny, and I fucking wanted him, and...well, he’ll get it._

_Hopefully._

^^^^^^^^^^

Mickey’s leg was shaking. It was a nervous tick of Ian’s that was happening to him all of a sudden. He dug his fingers into his thigh to stop the jitters. _Focus, Milkovich._

This was it. Their moment of reckoning. They were staring at each other, through the glass, both of them knowing what was at stake. Gallagher had that look in his eyes—didn’t matter that they were Mickey’s blue eyes staring back at him. He had that _I’m about to pour my heart and soul out to you_ look. And he was probably about to say things that Mickey had been waiting to hear for months. But Mickey was having trouble maintaining eye contact with his ex.

“Mick? You okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” Mickey replied, more focused on his guilt from jerking Ian off than the conversation they were about to have. “Go on.”

“Well, I know this ‘talking it out’ shit isn’t your favorite, but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking in here—ya know, with all this time on my hands…”

“Uh-huh,” Mickey mumbled back. 

“And I know now, Mick, that what I said to you, that day on my front porch...” Ian’s voice began to waiver, but he continued. “I know that wasn’t enough. And I wasn’t thinking straight, and there was so much more I could have said, so much more I needed to thank you for ‘cause the last thing I wanted to do…”

Mickey knew this was the part where he was supposed to say something, or at least acknowledge that he was listening, but the image of a pale and naked Ian stretched out on his bed kept popping into this head. 

“Hey! Are you listening?!” Ian asked loudly into the receiver, his “Mickey” eyebrows at an all-time high. “We need to talk about this shit and stop avoiding it. I’m trying to make things right between us. Can you at least look at me?”

“Ian,” Mickey said calmly. “Chill your tits, alright? I did something stupid and I need to tell you.” Fuck, he hated having to confess shit he’d done. It usually didn’t matter with Ian, he could tell him anything, but in this instance, it did.

“Stupid?” Ian gulped. “Like...what kind of ‘stupid’?” Mickey hadn’t seen the color drain from his face like that in a long time.

“Nothing illegal,” he reassured Ian. “But uh, well, here goes. So...last night...”

Ian leaned closer to the glass, his forehead practically pressed against it. “Yeah?”

“Well, last night,” Mickey began. “I was thinking about us. And you. And what you said about missing me.”

“I fuckin’ meant it,” Ian said with determination.

Mickey had missed seeing this confidence from Ian, his fighting spirit. “I know. And I kinda thought it was hot, and I happened to be staring at my—well, _your_ reflection in the mirror, and I—”

“Tell me you didn’t carve your name in my chest?!” Ian exclaimed with both a look of horror.

“No, asshole, but thanks for the idea,” huffed Mickey. “Like I was saying...I was looking in the mirror and got kinda turned on, and I ended up in your room. Naked.”

Mickey was hoping Ian could fill in the rest, but he still seemed clueless. “I jerked off, okay? But it was your dick and asshole I was using, and I knew it wasn’t cool for me to do that without asking, but I fucking needed to. And you’re fucking hot, even more than you were the last time we banged, and I’m only fucking human.”

_Fuck, what a relief that have that out in the open._

Okay, now “Mickey’s” eyebrows were officially a part of his forehead. “Wait, wait. Hold on. You jerked off? That’s it? That’s the stupid thing? That’s what’s got you actin’ all weird today?”

“Yeah...”

Ian leaned back and rubbed his fingers through dark brown hair, then moved forward with a look of pure fucking amusement. Mickey had to bite back a smile at a very familiar and dorky laugh coming out of his mouth. Well, Ian’s mouth. His mouth. _Oh, what the fuck ever._

“You’re not pissed?”

Ian had to collect himself before answering. “No, Mick, it’s okay. I’ve had the same urge. A few times. Just haven’t really had the...opportunity.”

“So, you wanted to...with _my_ …” Mickey gestured between his legs.

“Uh, yeah. I’m only fucking human, too. Is that...weird? I mean, I guess not, since you already…” Ian’s voice trailed off. 

“It’s fine. But like I said, it was stupid,” Mickey reiterated. “One, because I didn’t ask you first, and two, well...you know, I’m not sure about where things stand with... _us_.” Mickey fucking hated laying all his cards out on the table, but there they were. 

And now Ian had that look again, the _I’ve been waiting for you to say something so that I can be disgustingly sappy and make everything better between us with just one flirty little smirk_ look.

“Mick,” Ian paused, long enough for a flicker of a smile to pass over his lips. “There’s always gonna be an _us_. But like I was trying to tell you, I didn’t want that _us_ to drag _you_ down. I wanted you to be free of my shit...until I could get it together. But then you got arrested, and you didn’t fight for—”

“You know I had the odds stacked against me, man,” Mickey reminded him. _‘Course, that was nothing new._

“I know that. And if I had been any kind of stable, I woulda tried to get you to fight harder, but after everything that happened, I thought we were a lost cause.”

Mickey nodded slightly, waiting to see if Ian had anything more to say. He was trying to process his words, but there was already a goddamn sweeping feeling inside his chest, and he knew he was a goner.

“I know I was wrong. We’re not a lost cause.” Ian pressed his hand against the glass, and Mickey was about to do the same when the buzzer sounded. That fucking buzzer.

“Mickey, I love you,” Ian croaked out, looking back at Mickey with a sort of nervous, pleading expression. Mickey saw hope in his eyes, too. 

“Fuck, Gallagher.” Mickey had been waiting a long time to hear those words. And he knew Ian meant them. “I love you, too.”

“Yeah?” Ian asked, his entire face brightening, oblivious to the guard shouting at him. Mickey hadn’t seen a smile on _his_ face like that in a long time. 

Mickey nodded. “Better go before you get thrown in the hole. Call me tomorrow.”

“Alright, Mick. I will.” Ian nodded back, familiar blue eyes locked with green, through the glass, even as they parted ways.

And Mickey’s heart, even though it was _technically_ Ian's heart, for once in recent memory, didn’t feel like it was breaking into a million pieces. As a matter of fact, it was starting to feel whole again.

^^^^^^^^^^

When Mickey blinked his eyes open Sunday morning, he was, surprisingly, in the same bed where he’d gone to sleep. It was probably too much to ask, that the universe would throw them a bone after they’d confessed their feelings for each other. As in, _presto change-o_ , they’d be back in their proper skins. But nope, Mickey could hear the familiar clattering of dishes and general chit-chat from the Gallagher crew downstairs. It sounded like Fiona was up and at ‘em and giving a lecture to everyone. Mickey decided to stay put a little longer, hoping to avoid that shit.

He was still processing what Ian had said during their visit the day before. And yeah, he’d known all along they were definitely in _this_ together, kinda had to be, but what was going to happen whenever this shitshow was behind them?

Well, at least Ian had admitted to giving up on them too easily, back when he’d pulled the rug out from under Mickey and broke up with him. And then pretty much abandoned him. He’d had his reasons, and they sounded valid, except, how could the guy have doubted that Mickey would have found a way to support him—even from behind bars? He would have moved hell and high water to be with Gallagher.

Mickey couldn’t think of a subtle way to tell Ian about another plan that had been in the works with Damon. They’d been toying with the idea of escaping and going to Mexico. There was a female guard, Jenny Ferguson, who’d taken a liking to Mickey, and he figured there was some way to use it to his advantage. In the back of his mind, Mickey had figured that he might, _might_ swallow his pride and try to get Ian to cross the border with him. 

He’d tell Ian eventually, that despite the redhead pretty much abandoning him, there was something about the possibility of the two of them, living somewhat peacefully on a quiet beach, sippin’ _cerveza_ and no longer having the whole fuckin’ world trying to tear them apart, that helped him survive his prison stint.

A good hour of Mickey reflecting on everything passed by. And then, since he basically had Ian’s permission, Mickey jerked off to the thought of a fully freckled Ian pounding him into the sand on a Mexican beach. After that, he grabbed a quick shower with the five minutes of hot water still left, got dressed, and ambled downstairs to an empty kitchen. The quiet was nice, and Mickey was looking forward to another day of chilling and talking to Ian that afternoon.

Fiona appeared out of nowhere from the front room, like a cat stalking her prey. She wasn’t looking disheveled and heartbroken any more.

“Ian! You finally decided to join the living. Great! I got some new house rules to go over with you.” She joined him at the table. 

“Okay…”

Fiona had this sort of disapproving look, and then she lit into him. “Carl told me what you've been doing. Going to see Mickey Milkovich? Really? He almost killed Sammi!”

 _What the fuck was this? And Carl? Fucking’ traitor. And what goddamn business was it of hers?_ Mickey wasn’t sure how to respond to this sudden ambush, and he didn’t appreciate Fiona’s tone. “Yeah, so what?” Mickey scoffed. “Like you really care.”

“Well, he drugged her and scared the shit out of Debbie and Liam. Not exactly role model behavior.”

 _Was she serious right now?_ Mickey wished she’d crawl back into her bed to mope over that dope fiend Sean. “Really? After what she did to _I—_ Uh...me?!”

Her tone softened just the slightest amount. “Sweetface, I know that was so fuckin’ awful, and she deserved some kind of karmic whatever. I know Mickey cares about you, even if he was showin’ it in a totally fucked up way, but I’m watching you fall into old patterns—blowin’ off work, pissin’ away all that prep you did for the EMT gig. And then to find out you’ve been spending your free time goin’ to visit Mickey and draggin’ Carl into it…”

“Look, Fiona. There’s shit you don’t know about. I got this under control.”

“Yeah? Maybe you need to go back to the clinic, Ian. Get an adjustment on your meds.”

 _Jesus, this shit again._ “Why? Been taking them like I’m supposed to.”

“But the doctor said things could go off balance, you know, if something triggers you, and maybe seeing Mickey again has done just that.”

He couldn’t believe he was hearing this bullshit. Not after the numerous times that he and Fiona had worked arm in arm to make things better for Ian, to take care of him. 

“You’re wrong about this. So fuckin’ wrong.” This was actually hurting him, to hear Fiona think so poorly of what he’d been to Ian. 

“Well, think what you want, but like I told everyone else at breakfast, I’m over the shit with Sean. And I’m over everyone else’s shit. The house is in my name, and if you want to keep livin’ here, you better be able to pay your fair share—which means finding a damn job, Ian.”

She got up abruptly and declared, “Rent’s due in two weeks, no exceptions, or you’re out on your ass.”

 _Fuckin’ great._ Just when things were starting to look up with this whole Ian situation, the universe decided to rain some more shit down on him.


	17. Ian

Ian was standing in line for his evening meds, lost in thought, feeling a warm blush pass over his cheeks as he imagined Mickey jerking off in his body, then freaking out because he thought he’d violated Ian. That made him chuckle. Okay, it wasn’t funny, except it kind of was. And it was really fucking hot. 

But the most important thing that Ian had learned when they’d talked earlier, was that Mickey believed him when he’d told him “I love you.” And Mickey had said it back. It seemed like they were going to be okay. Maybe more than okay. Maybe soon.

Ian was in this all the way, even knowing that he and Mickey might be separated for a long time, a realization that had terrified and overwhelmed him a handful of times over the course of their relationship. It wasn’t going to be easy, especially if they continued living in the same warped, upside-down universe. But Ian now realized, after everything they’d been through, they didn’t need to self-preserve any longer—they needed to be there for each other.

As he stepped up to the window to receive his meds, Ian realized he was probably looking very _un-Milkovich like_ with a goofy grin plastered across his face. He barely noticed the skeevy look Carter was giving him as he handed the tiny paper cup of meds over to him. Ian swallowed his pills and started back towards his cell. 

“Milkovich!” 

He jerked his head around, now accustomed to answering to his new identity. There was a guard, _Scarface_ , pock marks and all, standing in the middle of the hallway with his hands on his hips. 

“Yes?”

“Call from your lawyer. Let’s go.”

Ian followed the guard to the set of administrative offices near the visitation area, heart beating rapidly, as this had to be good news or some sort of development for Dan to be calling on a Saturday evening.

“Hit the button for Line 1, and don’t touch any other shit,” Scarface said menacingly as he unlocked one of the doors and pushed it open. “I’m watching.”

Ian nodded and walked sheepishly over to the desk through the dark room, the phone just visible, thanks to the light from the hallway. He picked up the receiver and pressed the button with the flashing light.

“Hello?” Ian’s voice was calm, but his hands were trembling. 

“Mickey! Dan’s smooth voice came over the line. “Glad I caught you.”

Ian tried to sound relaxed. “Yeah, well, had to tell the rest of the gals to pause the bridge game. What’s up?”

Dan either didn’t get the joke, wasn’t amused, or didn’t have time for small talk. “I’m heading out of town for a few weeks, so I wanted to give you an update on where things stand.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

“I honestly can’t fathom why that piece of shit Wells didn’t negotiate your sentence way down, but I think I can make a case for him being preoccupied with other activities and not giving your case the attention it deserved.”

Ian gripped the receiver. This sounded like something. “Way down? Like, how much?”

“I may be able to get you out within a year, give or take, provided you do what we talked about.”

 _A year. A year!?!? This was fucking amazing news!_ It didn’t actually seem real, but Ian glanced down at Mickey’s tattooed hand, splayed out on the desk. He curled his fingers into a fist. Felt real. Sounded real. It had to be real.

“Mickey? Are you there?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.” Ian focused his attention back on their conversation. “A year...that’s...wow. I mean, thanks.”

“No guarantees, but remember to stay out of trouble. And I wouldn’t share this information with anyone. You could become a target. Other inmates may get jealous, try to sabotage things.”

“Sure. Of course,” Ian managed, still overcome with emotion. Getting Mickey out of this place had become a real possibility. 

“You do your part, and I’ll do mine. My associate is going to get all the paperwork filed on Monday. It may take a few months, but we’ll get the wheels in motion.”

“Wow. Fuckin’ thanks, man. Just...wow.”

“Well, don’t forget to thank Mandy. And tell her ‘hello’ from me.”

“Yeah. Will do.”

Ian waited until he heard the line go dead before he slowly placed the phone back in its cradle. 

“Back to your cell, Milkovich,” the guard said sternly. 

On the way back to the cells, Scarface must have noticed the hopeful look on “Mickey’s” face. The guard mumbled something about how he shouldn’t get his hopes up and that all lawyers were full of shit.

Ian felt like an idiot for not getting back into character right away, aka _badass take-no-prisoners_ Mickey Milkovich. The words from guard were a biting reminder that maybe he was being naive and hopeful for nothing. “Yeah,” Ian quickly agreed. “Definitely full of shit. I’m fucked for life, ya know?”

Scarface grunted in reply as he deposited “Mickey” at his cell. Paulie was stretched out on the top bunk, flipping through an old magazine. “There you are, Milkster! What was that all about?” he asked with a hint of concern in his voice. 

If there was anyone Ian would feel comfortable sharing his news with, it was Paulie, but out of respect to Mickey and to be extra careful, he decided to keep things vague.

“Hey, man. No biggie. Lawyer stuff.”

“Yeah?” Paulie propped himself up on an elbow. “They gonna review your case? I always thought you got a raw deal. I mean, the bitch didn’t die, which is way different than what happened with me and uh, my situation...”

Ian knew by now to tread lightly on the subject of Paulie and the crime he’d committed. “I dunno, man. The whole system’s fucked.” Ian flopped down on his bed, which was never a good idea, since it felt like he was landing on a rock slab. When was he going to learn?”

“Well, keep me posted,” Paulie said before calling down, “Wanna play some cards?”

 _And yeah, why not?,_ figured Ian. They could play cards and shoot the shit for a while. He liked to hear Paulie’s tales from his time in the Navy. Rather than feeling full of regret at his own failed stint in the service, Ian had eventually made peace with having to come back home.

He’d been lost when he’d returned to the Southside, under the influence of his mother and drugs, and thank fuck there’d been people in his life who didn’t let him stay on that path for too long. There was one in particular, of course; one who was willing to put everything on the line for Ian, believing that he was worthy of being loved and cared for. One whose life Ian hadn’t wanted to continue destroying because of his illness. But now he could see the light for them—a dimly lit candle maybe, but the flame was burning white-hot. 

Ian’s thoughts drifted back to the game of gin rummy, and after a few more rounds, Paulie suggested they call it a night. Ian agreed without argument. There was something he was really itching to do. After all, today was a day to celebrate. 

^^^^^^^^^^

It seemed like Paulie would never fall asleep. Of course the guy had picked this night of all nights to toss and turn in his bunk overhead. Ian waited as patiently as he could, drumming his fingers over his stomach, careful not to let them wander past Mickey’s belly button. He also tried to think about anything other than what he was about to do and the fact that Mickey might very well be getting ready to do the same damn thing.

Ian figured Mickey had done this before in his cell. And probably Paulie had too, though if he’d done it recently, he’d been courteous enough to make sure “Mickey” was blissfully unaware. Yeah, there was plenty of sexual activity in the joint—both solo acts and otherwise. 

Ian knew that Mickey had been banging other dudes, evidenced by Carter, of course, and the occasional rando who’d approached “Mickey” with an offer to “meet up later.” Ian had the same answer for anyone with such an offer: “Naw, I’m good. Got back with my ex.” It wasn’t an unreasonable amount of guys, but definitely enough to make Ian a little jealous, or envious of the fact that they’d been with Mickey much more recently.

 _Great_. _I’m thinking about Mickey fucking other guys._ But his wandering thoughts had bought him some time. Paulie had finally fallen asleep, and now Ian could focus on better times and just...well, touching Mickey. Touching... _himself?_

He could maybe see why Mickey had felt kind of guilty about the whole thing. But fuck it. Neither of them knew how long they’d have this kind of access and then how long they’d have to wait to be together again.

Ian had missed so many things about being with Mickey—his tough guy bravado, which would slowly melt into a sudden softness when they were alone together. Yeah, they were no strangers to quick fucks, but there were moments of tenderness between them. The sex changed after Mickey came out. He was free and open to trying new things, letting Ian do things to him, no longer ashamed or holding back.

Ian pulled the hem of his undershirt up to Mickey’s abdomen and skirted his fingers below the waistband of his underwear, biting back a quiet moan as his hand came in contact with Mickey’s dick. He took it in his hand loosely, running his thumb over the tip, familiarizing himself with a part of Mickey he’d come to know quite well. 

Ian had learned over the last few years how Mickey liked it when Ian showed appreciation for his uncut cock, especially since it was nowhere near as large as Ian’s. There wasn’t really ever a way Ian found to say what he wanted to say without shaming Mickey for his more average sized dick, but Ian loved how it felt in the palm of his own hand, his large fingers wrapped around it, sheathing it, stroking Mickey until he was hard and leaking. 

Mickey’s cock was the perfect size. Ian found himself remembering how eager he’d be to wrap his lips around Mickey and swallow him down, working his boyfriend into a frenzy of stilted grunts and moans, his body trembling, losing himself as he trusted Ian to take control, to take care of him. _I’ve got you, Mick. I always will._

Ian had a firm grip around Mickey’s cock now. He maneuvered his underwear down around Mickey’s hips and paused for a few seconds to admire his handy work (pun intended). There it was, visible thanks to the light coming from the hallway—Mickey’s perfect cock—made even more perfect by the drops of precum pooling at the slit. Ian brushed his finger over the slit and brought his finger to his mouth, tasting Mickey, sucking as quietly as he could, getting his fingers nice and wet to continue what he’d started.

As he stroked Mickey, Ian could feel a strange but familiar tingle building in the pit of his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut, picturing Mickey naked and writhing underneath him, head turned to the side, mouth open, mouthing the words “more” and “yes” and “harder.” And Ian going deeper, feeling as close as it was humanly possible to being melded to another person. Being inside of Mickey was like a religious experience. Every goddamn time. 

Ian had a fleeting moment of panic, wondering if he was making too much noise. And then it had passed, and he didn’t give a fuck. All he knew was that his whole body was ignited, and he was feeling something that he hadn’t felt in a long time. 

_God, what a fucking release._ Ian knew he was going to make a mess of himself and maybe wake Paulie up. But it didn’t really matter because Mickey belonged to _him_ —at least for now—and maybe for much longer.

Ian sucked in his breath as he came, letting the wave of pleasure sweep over him. He kept his eyes closed as he pushed his face into his pillow, trying his damndest not to cry out as he experienced that something, that _thrill_ , he’d been missing for a long time.

^^^^^^^^^^

It was early that Sunday morning when Ian woke up. He stared at the metallic bunk above him for a while, eventually hearing Paulie begin to stir. _Dammit_. Nothing magical had happened over night, even though he and Mickey had talked shit over, even though they were both experiencing the same longing and desire, and connecting in intimate, albeit unique, ways. 

But maybe they were on the right path now. It felt right, anyway, to be back with Mickey, to have said it out loud. And Ian had finally had the courage to do what Mickey had already done a few times—say those three words that felt unnatural. Love wasn’t something he could talk about. Because as soon as you let yourself believe in it, the person that you loved would vanish, just disappear. Like Monica. 

And Ian had been ready to say them to Mickey a few times before. Once, as he stood in front of him in the basement of the VFW, pleading with his whole heart for Mickey not to let Terry control his future with that farce of a forced marriage. Then there was one night in particular after he and Mickey had made love, like it had actually felt like there was something deeper and more meaningful behind their frantic touches and hungry kisses, something that made Ian’s heart want to burst open with happiness. Looking back, he had been manic as fuck at the time and afraid to tell Mickey how he was feeling, afraid that it wasn’t real, afraid that if he opened his mouth, all of his happiness would burst like a bubble. The other time that Ian had been on the cusp of telling Mickey he loved him, finally ready to make that commitment and say it out loud, Sammi had ratted him out for going AWOL. Which led to a series of events that made it abundantly clear to Ian that _those_ words, if he actually let them leave his lips, would hold Mickey captive, forever bound to the wreckage of a life Ian Gallagher would bring him. 

But now things were different. Mickey had shown him. This whole experience had shown him that there wasn’t a damn thing the two of them couldn’t get through together. And still find some sliver of joy.

Now it was time for Mickey Milkovich to go clean. No more fucking around, no more dipshit moves from either one of them. Damon wouldn’t be too happy. He was already chomping at the bit to get the next batch of product, but too bad—he’d have to find a new partner. 

There was one more thing Ian wanted to do, which was getting Mickey’s GED to demonstrate beyond a shadow of a doubt that the young man was trying to reform himself, even in the face of an unjustly lengthy prison sentence. Ian figured he might as well kill time by doing something productive. And he planned to tell Mickey most of what was going on. _Most of it_. But he needed to tread lightly, too, and not get Mickey’s hopes up, not set him up for any more disappointment.

When he called Mickey that afternoon, it took a few more rings than usual before he picked up, which made Ian a little bit nervous at first. “Everything okay?” he asked after hearing Mickey accept the call.

“Guess so. How ‘bout with you?”

Hmmm. Something was off—Ian could already tell. “I’m pretty good. I’m... _happy_...about yesterday.” Ian held his breath, waiting to see how Mickey would respond. 

“Yeah, me too,” he said softly, and Ian knew that if Mickey was upset about something, it wasn’t directed at him.

The words “I miss you” were on the tip of Ian’s tongue when Mickey blurted out, “How do you live with these assholes?”

Ian caught himself in a laugh, not exactly sure how to respond but glad that Mickey was sharing what was on his mind. “My siblings? What’s going on?”

“Well, for one, I’m gettin’ asked about your damn meds constantly. And Fiona’s definitely over her broken heart and on the warpath. Today she was tellin’ me to get a job and asking why I’m visiting you... _er_ , me. Aw, fuck it, you know what I mean. Carl told her about us, not sure why.”

Ian clicked his tongue. Yeah, it wasn’t easy, having so many people in your business and decisions made for you and about you. He’d _almost_ gotten used to it from his brothers and sisters. Well, that and he’d crashed at Caleb’s place to avoid it—Mickey didn’t really have that option. “Guess I should have warned you about being watched all the time. They mean well, just don’t want to see me relapse. And the job thing...do whatever you want. You deserve some time to chill. Ignore Fiona.” 

And Ian meant it, only he did understand where she might be coming from, thinking her brother was _finally_ stable and excited about his new possible career. But she’d have to accept this delay, just like Ian had—the circumstances weren’t going to allow for it right now. 

“I dunno, man,” Mickey replied. “Guess she’s got a point. I’m not doing you any good by just hanging around the house and watching shit on TV.”

“I know you’re doing more than that,” Ian insisted. “No way you’re not getting dragged into more Gallagher shit.”

Mickey laughed in this warm, familiar sort of way. “Yeah, no denying that.”

“Have you been home much?” It occurred to Ian that Mickey might be feeling a little trapped. Before everything went down with Sammi, Mickey at least had access to his family if he wanted to see them.

“Hell no. Don’t want to run into Terry. Not in the mood. I see Iggy when I need to borrow the car. He’s just doin’ his Iggy thing.”

“Okay. But what about getting in touch with Mandy?” Ian asked cautiously, hoping Mickey might consider the suggestion. 

“Might be too weird.”

“I know. Just something to think about.” 

They settled briefly into a comfortable silence before Ian heard the grumbling from his fellow inmates, who were no longer waiting patiently for him to wrap up his conversation. “Uh, I gotta go, just needed to tell you that I’m giving Iggy’s number to Damon. I’m out. And I don’t want to hear anything about it.”

“Look who grew a pair overnight?” Mickey scoffed. “Damn, another Gallagher telling me what’s what today.”

“Well, for good reason. I talked to the lawyer yesterday. He wants me to tow the line, thinks he might be able to get your sentence reduced.”

“Yeah, yeah. Heard it all before from Mandy, but you go ahead and try.” Mickey paused for effect. “And good luck tellin’ Damon what’s what. Better use some of that Ian Gallagher charm.”

Ian smiled into the receiver. “But don’t forget. Mickey Milkovich has his own kind of charm.”

“Whatever, Gallagher.”

Fuck, he had to hang up now, and it was killing him. Still, to feel this deeply, to love this much, Ian wouldn’t trade it for anything. “Miss you, Mick. Thanks for taking my call. Same time tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here. Or punching a clock. But I’ll be here.”


	18. Mickey

Mickey waited for Ian to hang up before heading downstairs into the living room. He wanted some company, any kind of a distraction, because as committed as he was to making things work with Ian, it still sucked to hell that they were apart. And on top of that, having to deal with the bullshit in each other’s lives. 

Mickey was relieved to see that Fiona was still at work, and it was just Carl and Liam in front of the TV.

Carl tilted his head back briefly to ask Mickey, “Good call?”

“Yeah...” Mickey went straight into the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge, popping it open and letting the cap fly across the kitchen. He had yet to confront Carl about opening his dumbass mouth and telling Fiona about him and Ian but still opted to hang out with his “brothers.” 

Mickey plopped down next to Carl and filled him on how Ian was doing. “Your brother’s holdin’ his own. Makin’ friends, you could say.”

Carl nodded. “Good. You guys friends again?”

“Maybe.”

“More than friends?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Mickey responded casually before taking a sip of his beer. “Not sure I should tell your ass anything since you ratted me out to Fiona.”

“Oh, shit! She told you?” There was the slightest tremble in Carl’s voice, knowing he’d fucked up, betrayed Mickey’s trust. He kept his eyes on the television. “I mean, I couldn’t think of anything else to say when she asked me where you’ve been hanging out. She was getting worried that something was off with your meds or some shit,” Carl explained.

“Jesus. You Gallaghers know know to fixate on something. Surprised you ever let Ian leave the house, thinkin’ he was gonna go nutso or whatever.”

“It’s just ‘cause she cares. And you know...the two of you…”

“What about the two of us?” Mickey, like a feral cat, had his guard up and was ready to attack if necessary.

“It’s just that...well, bad luck seems to find you. Case in point.” Carl waved his hand towards Ian’s frame.

Mickey crossed his arms in front of his chest and surprised even himself with what came out of his mouth. “Wouldn’t hurt for one of you to say something nice about me.”

Carl sat upright and looked directly at Mickey. “Hey, man. I remember. We all do. I remember how worried you were about Ian, when he went missing with Yev, then all that shit with Sammi. You were there for him, more than any of us could be. He trusted you. But you fucked up.”

“How’s that? You upset about what happened to Sammi?”

“Fuck no. That bitch got me sent to juvie. I didn’t care about what you did to her, until I realized you’d fucked yourself over. And Ian.” Carl shook his head, but then added softly, “But I’m in your corner. Always will be. Especially after all this.” He sank back into the cushion of the couch and turned his attention back to the television. 

Mickey wasn’t expecting Carl to give him any credit, so few people did. It meant something to him, the kid had definitely grown on him, but he didn’t know how to respond. He eventually mumbled, “Thanks,” and Carl did that Carl thing where he smiled with just the corner of his mouth.

“Once you get over bein’ all pissed at me, how about I go with you next time you isit-vay Ian-ay?” Apparently, Carl was trying to keep Liam in the dark with his very subtle use of pig Latin, though the little guy wasn’t paying them any mind.

“Fine by me. Pretty sure he added you to his visitor list.”

“I won’t be intruding?” Carl asked. “I mean, since you guys are trying to work things out?”

“Eh. Not like we’ll be having a candlelit dinner. I don’t care if you’re there. ‘Sides, don’t even know if I can go on up on Wednesday. Have to find a fuckin’ job!” Mickey groaned into the pillow of the sofa, lurching his face back when he got a whiff of what was probably Frank’s dried-up piss.

“Plenty of jobs around here,” Carl said encouragingly, changing the channel on the television to _Ren and Stimpy_ , much to Liam’s delight. “Go talk to your dad.”

Mickey flicked his pseudo-brother’s shoulder, their moment of levity having passed. “C’mon, dumbass. Think about it. _Ian_ going to see Terry? About a job?”

“Um...okay...” Carl rubbed at the spot where he’d just been assaulted.

“They ain’t exactly the best of friends. And I’d rather get screws drilled into my eyeballs before asking Terry for anything,” Mickey remarked, clenching his fist. It was strange, but he had this vague recollection of punching Terry in the face—not as himself, but as Ian, that night at the Alibi. Fuck, that turned out to be a glorious night, after all was said and done. “Anyway, I need an actual job, something legit. Ian’s record’s not entirely fucked up like mine is.”

“How about asking Fiona for your old job at Patsy’s?”

“Hard pass,” Mickey said. “There’s already two busboys with the last name ‘Gallagher’ at that dive. And I don’t need Fiona breathing down my neck. Think I’d rather try to get Ian’s janitor job back. Know anything about it?”

“Nope, but you could ask Lip.”

“Where is the fucker?”

“Not sure. Out,” Carl shrugged. “Text him.”

“And say what? _Hey, Lip. I don’t remember shit about that job you got me. Give me all the details again_.”

“Ask him to go with you, say you don’t remember how to get around campus.”

Well, maybe the punk had a few useful ideas. Mickey finished off his beer and went back to the kitchen for another. “Worth a shot.”

^^^^^^^^^^

Bright and early that next morning, Mickey, being his most charming version of Ian, managed to convince Lip to drag his hungover ass out of bed and ride with him over to the university. He only had to sweeten the deal by making Lip a pot of coffee. _Strong_ coffee, Lip had insisted, which he handed him once they were on the L. 

“How many scoops did you use, man? Tastes like tar,” Lip made a face as he nudged Ian’s arm and nodded for him to stand up. Some old lady had just gotten on the train and needed a place to sit. 

“Made it the way Dad likes it,” Mickey replied distractedly, his thoughts darting between what Ian might be doing at the moment and this job thing. He wasn’t sure how much groveling he’d have to do since “Ian” had been ignoring emails from his boss for almost two weeks. 

“You mean ‘Frank?’ Haven’t heard you call him ‘Dad’ in a while, even before you found out about Clayton.”

 _Oh, fuck._ That was a slip. Mickey hadn’t ever heard the Gallagers refer to Frank as anything other than “Frank.” And the Clayton thing—Ian had said something about it once to Mickey but then shrugged it off like it didn’t phase him not to be one of Frank’s kids.

“Whatever, man. Drink it or don’t. Better than all that booze you’ve been throwing back.”

Lip didn’t say anything for a minute or two and kept taking sips from his thermos, grimacing when he swallowed. A couple of stops before the university, Lip leaned in closer to “Ian” and said, “You know I can only go so far with you. Part of the whole ‘getting expelled’ thing.”

“The fuck you come with me for?” Mickey practically shouted. A few of the other passengers who’d had their heads down, swiping through their phones, glanced up at the two men.

“Jesus, calm down,” Lip said. “I wanted to see if you needed anything. Try to see what’s gotten into you lately.”

“What does that mean?”

“Uh...see if you’re taking your meds. And...”

“And what?” Mickey huffed. God, had he nagged the shit out of Ian like his siblings were doing right now? 

“And to ask you about, you know... _Mickey._ Fiona says you’re visiting him again.”

“And?”

“I want to know why. This brought on by your visit with Mandy?”

Mickey could feel his fist clenching again with the urge to knock Lip down on his ass. He didn’t like the sound of his sister's name coming out of the guy’s mouth, knowing he’d treated Mandy like garbage. But he wasn’t about to lose it and blow his cover, or give Ian’s older brother any more cause for worry.

“Don’t want to talk about Mandy with you,” he managed before relaxing his fingers and taking a deep breath. “Or Mickey. We’re fine. Everything’s fine. Life has a way of fuckin’ with you sometimes.”

Lip shrugged, his eyes bleary from way too much drinking. “It’s just weird, man. You sound like him. Like Mickey.”

That was easy to explain. “Well, yeah. We talk almost every day. Guess he’s rubbing off on me.”

“He doin’ alright?”

What was this? Lip actually sounded like he cared. “Why you asking?”

“I don’t dislike the guy. I just… question some of his life choices, but I know he means a lot to you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, man.” Mickey brushed off the halfway-decent comment. “Just tell me where I need to go to find this Ron dude.”

“You really don’t remember, huh?”

“I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“Yeah, like becoming an EMT,” Lip reminded him. “You got a shit load of prep materials in your room. Which by the way, I was thinking we could—”

“Fuck no. I’m keeping the room. So...Ron?” They were out on the platform of the L, and Mickey already felt out of place with a bunch of academic-looking types around them.

“Go two blocks from here. When you get to campus, go in through the main gate, and look for Calloway Hall a couple buildings down towards the right, basement level, I think. And Godspeed,” said Lip as he pointed Mickey in the general direction of the university. “Catch you later, man. Going to find an open bar.”

And with that, Mickey was on his own, armed with his Southside smarts and a sob story about why “Ian” had been absent from work. 

He made his way over to the entrance of the university, which consisted of two large brick columns and fancy rod-iron swirly letters in the form of an arch. There were several people milling around, presumably students, some scurrying one way or the other, backpacks slung over their shoulders, pricey coffee drinks in hand. Mickey wasn’t intimidated by the mass of coeds, but he didn’t exactly feel like he was in his element.

He found a directory and scanned the map. All of the names of buildings were blurring together.

“Are you lost?” asked a perky female voice. A chick with brown hair, big boobs, and heavy makeup was standing next to “Ian” and twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Need help finding your way?”

 _Jesus_. _Could Ian go anywhere without getting hit on?_ Everyone seemed to be drawn to him, like moths to a flame, which was actually not a surprise to Mickey—he was no stranger to the redhead’s ability to charm most living and breathing creatures. The surprise was, years ago, when he realized at a very young age how much Ian was drawn to him. Ian chose _him_.

“Uh, I’m good.” Mickey resisted the urge to shoo the skank away and waited for her to take the hint before refocusing on the map and finally spotting the building, pretty much exactly where Lip had told him.

He winded his way around the various students, climbed the few steps to the large oak doors of Calloway Hall, and went inside. After riding the elevator to the basement floor, Mickey located a sign for the “Janitorial Department” and descended a set of steps, feeling a growing uneasiness from this whole experience. 

He pushed through a chain-link door and stepped into a large room scattered with trash bins, a worn out couch, other odds and ends, and two dudes—a black guy who looked like he was prepping his cart to roll out and a fat white dude slumped over a desk, dozing off—he assumed that was Ron.

Mickey nearly jumped out of his skin ( _if only_ ) when the guy with the cart, whose name was _Tod_ on his uniform, rushed over to pat Ian on the back. “Where you been, man? Your uniform came last week. Ron was pissed you weren’t here to wear it,” he said in a quiet voice, both of them glancing over at the desk. Ron was still asleep.

“Yeah...life happens. But, uh, I’m here now.”

“Do me a favor and wake him up after I clear out. This could get ugly.”

“Okay…” Mickey watched as the guy wheeled his cart out, turning to mouth the words “good luck” as he disappeared around the corner. 

_Good luck._ Like he needed it. There were plenty of other places he could apply if Ron wanted to be a dick. 

Mickey marched over to Ron’s desk and cleared his throat once, then twice, until the big oaf opened his eyes and wiped the drool away from his mouth. “You,” he grumbled once he fully came to his senses. 

“My, uh, dad, got sent up the river ( _true story_ ), so I needed to get a few things in line. Where should I get started? Todd said my uniform came in.”

“Hold on, there, fella. You think you can just waltz back in here and all will be forgiven? I thought you were gonna be a big shot EMT.”

“Well, I—”

“Save it. Your dreams got dashed, and now you wanna pretend like everything’s fine? Ha! You come crawling back in here and don’t even say the magic word.” 

Mickey scratched his eyebrow, trying to show restraint, trying not to cuss this fat fuck out for lording it over Ian that he’d been a failure. When, actually, he hadn’t. 

“Magic word, huh? Like, please?”

“That’s the one.”

“Even if I say it, you ain’t gonna give me my job back. Are you?”

Ron sort of coughed or laughed, Micky couldn’t tell, but obviously, he’d read the guy like a book.

“Here’s the thing, kid. You think you’re too good for this place.”

“I’ll be honest, mister. I ain’t done an honest day’s work in my life. With the exception of this job. And fuck no, I don’t think I’m too good to schlep a mop around. I’m fuckin’ Southside, and this job is paradise compared to what the people in my neighborhood have to do to make a living. Look, I know I screwed up, but how about giving me another chance?”

Ron appeared to be deliberating over what to do with an expression Mickey imagined he usually reserved for the buffet line at the Golden Corral. “Fine. But you’re still on probation, and I’m docking you for the cost of that uniform since I don’t know if you’ll actually be sticking around.”

“Fair enough.” And hopefully it was true. As soon as things were back to normal, Mickey was sure Ian would quit this place and go for the EMT gig. For now, Mickey had a job, and Fiona would leave him the hell alone. “Thank you,” Mickey said in the most sincere way possible, which most people wouldn’t be able to pull off through gritted teeth. “So, what’s my first assignment?”

“Theta Chi house. They had a massive party last night. Grab a bag of _Smelleze._ Gonna be a lot of vomit for you to clean up.”

^^^^^^^^^^

“Can’t come to see you ‘til Saturday.” Mickey went ahead and got that out of the way during his call with Ian that evening. He hated to feel like he was abandoning Ian, so if the guy gave any indication he wouldn’t be okay to wait, well, Mickey might have to have another chat with Ron.

“Why? What’s up?”

“Got your old job back.”

“No shit? At the university? Did you threaten Ron with bodily harm? He’s not all that...compassionate.”

“Ron’s a real prick. He’s only letting me back on a trial basis. Says I have to clean the frat houses. And the sorority ones. Fuck. Bunch of bitches will be hittin’ on me, since you know, I’m lookin’ like you these days...”

“Not in the janitor uniform they won’t be hitting on you, trust me. You’ll fade into the background in no time.”

“This job sucks balls. Don’t know how you did it.”

“I didn’t. Not for long,” Ian added. “I tried to find something else, and then...well…”

“Yeah, yeah. The firefighter GQ asswipe convinced you to go for the EMT thing.”

“Mickey…”

“It’s fine. I ain’t jealous of the guy. I mean, he’s got a nice ass, and that’s if I’m being generous ‘cause, you know, considering how much you like my—”

“Yeah, I do, Mick.” Ian laughed, his voice growing softer. “I like everything about you.” He paused and took a deep breath, sounding like he had something important to say. “But yeah, it wasn’t exactly a smooth path to the EMT thing. I, uh...I almost did something right before that. Something really bad. Came close anyway. Until I saw the car accident...on the bridge.”

 _Whoa. What was this?_ It had been naive for Mickey to assume that Ian was just magically better after he stopped visiting him. “Accident? Bridge? What the fuck happened?”

It sounded like Ian shifted how he was holding the phone, like he was cupping his hand around the receiver so no one could overhear him. “I was feeling really low, Mick. Just, so fucking lost. Not just numb from the meds but...dead. Inside. And I thought I’d lost you for good, along with any chance of being anything more than a goddamn janitor. I felt like I had nothing.”

“Ian. You shoulda...I don’t know, called me.”

“I couldn’t, Mick. I didn’t want to drag you back into my shit. I thought that I’d be better off...gone. No longer a burden. And I think I would have jumped off that bridge, but right before I could, I saw a car get rammed into. Whoever did it just drove away, leaving some woman for dead.”

“Fuck.” Mickey was still processing what Ian had shared, thinking back on the day he’d gone with his boyfriend to the clinic. The nurse had mentioned how he would need to make a suicide list. As far as Mickey knew, Ian had never made one—both of them figuring he wouldn’t need it, and Mickey unable to imagine anything that could ever separate them.

 _And Ian wanting to kill himself? No way would he ever do that._ You could knock the kid down, and he’d get back up. Always had. But this bipolar shit was no joke. Thank fuck he hadn’t gone through with it.

“Mick? You okay?”

“Jesus, Ian. Why you asking me if I’m okay? Are you okay?” Mickey gulped back what very well might have come out as a sob. “Wish you had told me before. At the beginning of all this. I woulda, I dunno, done something to get locked up in there with you. Still can. Don’t want you getting like that again.”

“Hey,” Ian replied with a commanding tone. “You don’t have to do that. I’m okay. I know this whole thing is fucked up, but it’s given me a new sense of purpose. And I owe you. Big time.”

“I better come up on Wednesday, just to—”

“No, you don’t have to. I’m serious,” Ian insisted. “I didn’t tell you that to make you worry. I’ve never told anyone about the bridge. But I trust you. And I’m better. And I know things happen for a reason, maybe not always a reason we want to admit, but they do...”

Mickey hummed in agreement, “Okay, _Aristotle._ If you say so.” He could hear the grumblings of the other inmates in the background. “Guess you better go?”

They reluctantly agreed to hang up, both mumbling “I love you’s,” though it didn’t quite roll off their tongues, Mickey decided. Still, it seemed like the right thing to say, after a conversation like they’d just had. Besides, maybe they both needed to get used to saying it and hearing it. And not being afraid anymore.

^^^^^^^^^^

Mickey was worried that the next few days were going to be torture. He was right. Not only did he miss his visit with Ian, but cleaning up after a bunch of dickhead college kids was the WORST.

At least he and Ian were able to talk everyday for a few minutes. Ian gave him updates on prison life. Thankfully, Damon hadn’t given him too much shit about getting out of the business, not after he’d been such a hero when it came to Cortez getting stabbed. Iggy was confused by the whole situation, but as long as he was still making money, he seemed willing to go along with having a new “distributor.” And Paulie was still nosy as fuck, asking about why “Ian” had skipped Wednesday’s visit and was everything okay between them? 

Finally, Saturday rolled around, and Mickey had survived the work week without cussing out Ron or getting canned. Now he'd get to lay eyes on Ian and see how he was doing. Carl was coming, too, but was still up in his room, pleading with his girlfriend to take him back. She’d cheated on him, and Mickey had told him that unless Dominique was truly his “ride or die” to let the bitch go. Dumbass didn’t listen.

Mickey was about to go upstairs and yank the little shit by his collar when he heard a loud knock at the door. He thought twice about answering it, this not really being his house, but he was the only one downstairs, and well, fuck it, what did he have to lose?

“Chill your tits. I’m coming!” he yelled as the knocking continued. “What?” he sneered at the woman standing on the other side of the door. He sized her up quickly—short, middle-aged, and wearing an official uniform of some sort. Not a cop.

“Southsiders have such fabulous manners. I’m Rita. Looking for an Ian Gallagher. You know him?”

“Maybe,” Mickey replied, not sure what this chick wanted. “Why?”

“Ian hasn’t been responding to my messages, and I wanted to make sure everything was okay. We were really looking forward to having him train with our crew. He got a perfect score on his EMT exam. Haven’t known anyone to do that in a while. Other than me, that is.”

Mickey vaguely remembered seeing some emails from a “Rita.” _Shit, the fuck was he supposed to say? Something to make her go away._

“He’s a real smart guy, that Ian,” Mickey blurted out. “But he’s had some sh—stuff come up that he’s trying to work through. Maybe he can call you when things get better?”

Rita nodded slowly, and Mickey could see her eyes studying him, taking in his surroundings and trying to paint a picture of who he was. She finally shrugged and stuck her hand out, offering him her card. “Have _Ian_ call me, huh? I’d really like to see what he’s made of.”

Mickey accepted the card, watching Rita walk away and feeling the urge to crumple her card and toss it into the yard. But he didn’t.


	19. Ian

It was Saturday afternoon, and Ian was feeling a buzz of energy, excited nervousness, knowing he was an hour or two away from Mickey’s visit. Sure, there’d be a glass barrier between them, but they’d finally started to break down the invisible walls keeping them apart. As fucked up as their current situation was, they had the mysterious powers of the cosmos to thank.

Visits between them were less awkward now—a familiar warmth having returned to their voices, their banter more playful. It happened fairly quickly that Ian no longer felt like he was looking at himself in the mirror, through that glass, because all of Mickey’s mannerisms, his subtle gestures and not so subtle way of phrasing things, came shining through, despite the red hair and freckles and green eyes not being his own. 

Ian glanced down at Mickey’s knuckle tattoos, his faithful reminder of where he was and who he had to be. It had been a fairly typical day so far. Breakfast with Paulie, work duty, then Ian had skipped lunch in favor of going to the library to study. He woofed down two Snickers bars while reading through his GED prep materials. Ian figured he’d be ready to take the test in a few more days. He didn’t need a perfect score, just enough to pass and continue building the case that Mickey’s time in prison had reformed him.

Things with the appeal were moving faster than Ian could have imagined. He’d received a formal notification that Mickey would need to present to the court in three weeks for a hearing with a judge who would determine whether he should be resentenced. Dan had informed “Mickey” that he should prepare a statement, and he gave him a few pointers about how to make his case.

It was killing Ian not to be able to tell Mickey, but he’d decided to wait until closer to his court date. That way, he wasn’t hiding _everything,_ and he wasn’t giving Mickey time to build up false hope should things not work out. Sometimes, even Ian wasn’t entirely sure whether any of this was real. Couldn’t be, right? Dan was fucking with them. The universe was fucking with them. Again. No way they’d actually have a chance to be together in the near future, like physically together. 

Ian was pulled from his thoughts when he felt someone lightly tapping his shoulder. “Excuse me, Inmate Milkovich. I was told to fetch you for visitation. Ready to go?”

He recognized the voice instantly, probably because it belonged to one of only two female guards that he’d encountered in the prison so far. _Ferguson_. It had been several days since he’d seen Mickey’s most adoring fan, not since she’d patted him down outside the cafeteria. Or maybe he just hadn’t been paying attention since there were so many other things on his mind. 

Ian nodded and looked up at Fergie, taking in her plain and unremarkable face and catching a hopeful glimmer in her eyes, that Mickey might engage with her. Ian felt for this poor woman, who was obviously enamored with the blue-eyed man, but he didn’t have it in him to feign even mild interest. He packed up his materials, pushing them against the wall with the intention of returning to the library after his visit with Mickey. “Ready.”

“After you,” she said politely, gesturing for him to go in front of her.

They walked silently for only a few seconds until Ian could sense Ferguson moving closer to him. She squeezed his arm lightly. “I’ve been thinking about you, Mickey.”

Ian didn’t know how to respond, finding himself tongue-tied and unsure how to play this one. Had Mickey ever given this woman a reason to be _thinking_ about him, or led her on somehow? 

“Um, thanks...Ms. Ferguson?” he managed.

“So formal,” she chided him, now walking at a faster pace, ready to take charge of where they were headed, maybe even try to cut him off and back him against a wall. “I told you before. You can call me Jennifer.”

“Oh, right. _Jennifer_. Don’t know where my mind’s at. Guess I'm excited about seeing my boyfriend.”

Fergie gasped, like someone had punched her in the stomach. 

_Was that the wrong thing to say? It was probably the wrong thing to say._

“B-boyfriend? You never mentioned anything about a boyfriend.”

“Uh, yeah, just sorta happened. Me and my ex. We got back together,” he offered, trying to let her down gently but knew he was bombing. Maybe it was a good time to thank her for not busting him with those drugs a few weeks back. “Anyway, thanks for helping me out a few weeks ago. I owe you one.”

She was silent for a few seconds, collecting herself. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said gruffly, turning away from him until they’d arrived at the visitor area. “Here you are. Have a wonderful visit with your _boyfriend._ ”

Their eyes met briefly, and Ian tried to convey a silent apology with his expression, wondering if he’d done damage to whatever relationship Mickey had with this woman and if it was at all important. 

“Thanks. Jennifer.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever,” she said dejectedly

“No, really,” Ian said, lightly brushing his fingers against her wrist. “Thank you. I’ll always remember your kindness.”

She was blushing now, trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism, and Ian could tell that she must have had feelings for Mickey, had let herself be vulnerable with him in some capacity, though he figured Mickey had been using her feelings to some sort of advantage. 

“Off you go, Inmate Milkovich. Let’s see how long this _boyfriend_ of yours sticks around,” she smirked before waving her badge to let him inside. 

Ian was directed to Booth #3, changing his focus to who was about to be in front of him, after what had seemed like forever. He approached the glass, stopping abruptly in his tracks when he realized who else had come to visit. His eyes lit up at the sight of Carl, another familiar someone who cared about him and was supporting the both of them as much as a fresh-out-of-juvie, hormonal teenager could. 

Mickey, wearing Ian’s _look what I did for you_ smug grin, picked up the receiver on his side of the glass and passed it immediately to Carl, whose eyes were darting back and forth between the two men.

“Hey, man…” he said quietly into the phone, his eyes finally settling on Mickey’s form.

“Glad you came today, Carl.”

“Uh, you are?”

“Of course!” Ian practically shouted. “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed all of you.”

Carl’s face broke into a wide grin. “So it’s actually you in there? I guess Mickey’s been telling the truth all along.”

“That or we’ve been fucking with you this whole time,” Ian teased, waiting for that look of bewilderment his brother would get, like he was trying to solve a complex math problem in his head. “I’m kidding, Carl. No way could we pull off something like this if it wasn’t true. And I appreciate you helping us out. Really. No one in the family suspects anything?”

“Well, they do think it’s weird you’re coming to see Mickey in prison...and that maybe you’re off your meds. You are taking your meds in here, right?”

“Yes, I am.” Ian nearly rolled his eyes but decided not to get too bent out of shape over the question. “Had some help, so it’s working out okay.” He winked at Mickey.

“Seems like you’re doin’ better than this guy.” Carl nudged Mickey’s shoulder. “Had a cop come by lookin’ for him...er, _you_ this morning.”

Before Ian could ask Carl for more details, Mickey had grabbed the phone from him and was on the verge of punching the kid’s arm. He somehow managed to restrain himself.

“Had a whole hour drive up here, and this dumbass waits until now to bring this up.”

“Uh, everything okay?” Ian didn’t know whether to laugh or be concerned, so he waited for Mickey to provide an explanation.

“It wasn’t a cop. It was some EMT lady, asking about you and wondering why you’d ghosted her. Something about training. She emailed you. Rita, I think?” Mickey was now half-glaring at Carl and half-watching Ian’s reaction.

“Rita? Huh. Don’t remember all the details, but yeah, sounds familiar. She came to the house?”

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded. “Guess she really wants you on her crew.”

“Oh, well...tough luck.” Ian was still beating himself up for having lied on his application, and he figured whenever he and Mickey switched back, he’d probably have to change career paths. No more lying.

“Hey, Mick. Before our time runs out, I want to ask you about Fergie.”

“Who?” Mickey looked genuinely puzzled.

“Ferguson. Female guard. Friend of yours?”

“Oh yeah. Right.” Mickey shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Not now though, you know, ‘cause Carl wants to say goodbye. You’ll call tomorrow?”

“Okay. Sure,” Ian agreed quickly, remembering it wasn’t really safe to talk about the guards. “Thanks for bringing Carl. Guess I’ll see you in a week?”

“Guess so,” Mickey forced a smile as he passed the phone back to Carl. After a few more minutes of catching up on life at the Gallagher house, the buzzer sounded.

“Fuck, that was quick. See ya later, Ian. You look good as Mickey. Real tough guy.”

“Thanks, Carl. I’ll call you soon. I’m gonna need a favor. Keep it between us,” Ian whispered into the phone while simultaneously holding his hand up to tell Mickey goodbye. When he realized Mickey’s fingers were on the glass, tapping it lightly, he placed his fingers there, too, imagining what it was going to be like for the two of them to be back where they belonged—both of them on the other side of the glass.

^^^^^^^^^

After their visit, Ian went back to the library to study, though he got distracted from time to time, letting his mind wander to things being back the way they should be. _Both of them free_. What would that look like? Stability? Domestic bliss? Or chaos and uncertainty? Fuck, it didn’t really matter if they could be together.

Ian had almost forgotten about his brief encounter with Ferguson, but then he spotted her from his table in the cafeteria at dinner time. He quickly glanced down at his tray of food, pushing the dollop of watery applesauce around with his spoon.

“What’s the matter, _Miguelito_?” asked Damon. He was eating dinner with Mickey and Paulie, which he still did on occasion for a change of scenery.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Ian replied. “Why?”

“Man, I dunno. You’re different now. Quiet. Like extra quiet.”

Paulie interjected on his behalf. “Leave him alone. He’s in love.”

Damon shook his head. “Fuck that. You gotta keep making eyes at Fergie, man.”

“Not really my thing,” Ian shot back. “How ‘bout you give it a try?”

“Because, _ese,_ she likes your baby blues.” Damon sounded like he was getting agitated, which apparently he was, because he gestured at Paulie to clear out. Paulie got up right away and moved down the table. _Coward_.

Ian held his breath, doing everything in his power not to show his growing fear. So far, he’d been able to harness Mickey’s energy to de-escalate any of Damon’s outbursts, but this seemed different somehow.

“Look, _compadre_ ,” Ian began. “I don’t expect you to give a fuck, but I have a real chance with my ex. And I’m gay. So the thought of me and Ferguson…”

“Look, man, she’s our ticket outta here. Remember? _México_. Beaches. Sand. You already told me about bringing your ex along. I got no beef with you sticking it another dude’s ass, but come on. Can’t quit now.”

This new information hit Ian like repeated jabs to his gut. Mickey had been planning an escape? To Mexico? And he was using his charms on Ferguson? Plus he’d been planning on Ian coming with him—assuming he was the ex mentioned? After everything, after all of Ian’s shit and their collective baggage, Mickey still saw a future for them.

“Lemme think on it,” Ian mumbled, lifting his tray from the table, standing up in a total daze, lost in thought and oblivious to the glare on Damon’s face. 

_Mickey wasn’t ready to give up on me. On us. He was willing to risk everything for me. Again._ These thoughts played over and over in Ian’s head as he went through the motions of his evening routine and as he fell asleep. 

When they talked via phone on Sunday, Mickey was uncharacteristically chatty, filling Ian in on the fact that Frank was back, risen from the dead, having survived his “fall” from the bridge and trying to reclaim his status as head of household. No one was having it. 

On top of that development, Carl was no longer sweating his girlfriend being unfaithful. He’d become friends with the girl’s father, a cop, and even doing some job shadowing with him. Mickey seemed amused. 

“ _Officer Carl Gallagher_. And you all thought he’d grow up to be a serial killer,” Mickey laughed, finally taking a breath and noticing that Ian was extra quiet. “What’s up, man? Not saying much.”

“Uh...” Ian was still in disbelief over what he’d learned the day before, not surprised that Mickey cared about him that much, just confused as to why anyone would put him first, knowing that every day with him could be a crap shoot. And Mexico? What kind of shitshow would that be with both of them on the run?

“Ian? You okay?” Mickey asked.

“Yeah,” Ian said quietly. “Was just thinking about my question from yesterday.”

“Which one?”

“The one about Fergie.”

“Oh, right. That one.” 

“I got some answers from Damon.”

Mickey let out a half-groan. “You did, huh? So what’s your take on it?”

“Well, I think you’re a dumbass.” Ian felt this sudden warmth in his chest as he continued. “But it was really nice of you, thinking about us. Me. The future.”

“Fuckin’ Damon. He wasn’t supposed to share that with anyone.”

Ian chuckled. “Well, guess he hasn’t realized that you’re not you. Jesus, for a guy who likes to keep shit private, you were kinda spillin’ your guts in here.”

“Yeah, well...I got feelings. Sometimes I let ‘em out.”

“But there’s a problem,” Ian informed him.

“What’s that?”

“Damon wants me to keep up with the charade. And I don’t want to.”

“Couldn’t Fergie be a back-up plan?” Mickey suggested. “If that shit with the attorney don’t pan out?”

It was on the tip of Ian’s tongue to tell Mickey the news about the hearing, but he still didn’t think it was the right time. “We gotta do this the right way. Thing is, Damon’s not gonna take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“Hmmmm…” Mickey paused and seemed to be weighing their options, then practically shouted, “I got it! Tell him I’m your _Esperanza_.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Just tell him. Should do the trick.”

“Okay. If you say so. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Ian bit into his bottom lip. “It’s gonna suck not seeing you until next weekend.”

“Yeah, I know. But I’m becoming one of Ron’s favorite employees,” Mickey shared with that famous hint of Milkovich sarcasm. “Can’t let him down.”

“Probably in line for employee of the month. Hey, tell Carl I’m glad he’s moving on,” Ian added.

“Will do. I’ll be sure to give him some pointers for his new career in law enforcement.”

“Thanks for taking care of him, Mick. Talk to you later.”

“See ya, Ian. I’ll be up there before you know it.”

^^^^^^^^^^

Monday felt like an actual Monday with 5 more days until Mickey’s next visit. Ian was managing though, since he had a purpose, and there was hope that he (or Mickey) wouldn’t be in this place for much longer. 

He ended up telling Paulie about his court date and his chance for an earlier release. It was Tuesday night, and Ian had taken a break from studying to hang with Paulie and play cards.

“That’s good news,” Paulie said warmly, but his expression said something different—concern maybe. “You’ll have to watch your back once the news gets out. You know what tongue-wagging gossip queens the guards can be. What did Ian say when you told him?”

“Haven’t yet. Don’t want him to get his hopes up. I mean, I might have a shot,” Ian reasoned. “I did the crime, sure, but I also got the book thrown at me, and I wasn’t in my right mind to fight it.”

“You did it for Ian, though, right? Landed here? After his half-sister wronged him?” 

Ian nodded, assuming that Mickey had already told Paulie the story. 

“So would you do the same thing again?” Paulie asked him. “Knowing what you know now?”

“Guess not,” Ian responded with a shrug.

“Funny, I thought you’d say the opposite. Don’t strike me as the kinda guy to second guess himself.”

That was true about Mickey. When he committed to something, there was no changing his mind. “Well, uh, I coulda been smarter about the whole thing.”

“Yeah, you could have.” Paulie looked down at his palms. “Can’t say I woulda done anything different. Even if I didn’t mean to kill that son-of-a-bitch, he had to pay. For disrespecting me. Taking away someone I loved. And my wife, well, ex-wife...I loved her so much. My Diane.”

Ian could see the tears welling up in his bunkmate’s eyes, and he patted him on the shoulder lightly, knowing how rarely he talked about this part of his past. “I’m sorry, Paulie. When you love someone that much, you can’t always control how you’re going to react...especially when they get taken from you.”

Paulie didn’t have much to say after that, so they put the cards away and called it a night. It took awhile for Ian to fall asleep, reminded of the memory of being physically pulled from Mickey’s side by the MPs, Sammi just standing there in the Gallagher living room, looking all self-righteous and proud of herself after she’d managed to fuck them over. Wasn’t difficult to see why Mickey wanted revenge. 

Soon, Ian would have to come up with a statement for Mickey’s court appearance and somehow explain his actions in a way that the judge would understand, how none of what he’d done to Sammi was meant to harm her _permanently_ but to make her pay for the lives she’d destroyed. Mickey had to show remorse for his actions. Growth, too. And Ian figured if anyone could talk about those things, after the past several weeks and everything they’d been through, it was him. 

^^^^^^^^^^

During work duty that following afternoon, Ian was pleasantly surprised when a guard showed up to tell him he had a visitor. He knew right away it was Mickey. The sap had been hinting about it during their phone calls.

“Carl’s covering for me,” Mickey explained as soon as Ian picked up the receiver. They were both smiling like idiots.

“Are you serious?” Ian laughed so loud that a few of the other prisoners in the booths told him to shut the fuck up. He didn’t give a shit.

“Eh, all the kid has to do is empty some trash cans and sneak into the office to punch out.”

“In _my_ uniform? Won’t look suspicious at all.”

“He’ll manage. Besides, wanted to see you,” Mickey said softly into the receiver, raising his eyebrows, like he was expecting Ian to melt right in front of him. Big dork.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“Rather be here with you than cleaning up after those dipshits.”

“Wow, quite the compliment, Mick.”

“You talk to Damon yet? Mention _Esperanza_?”

Ian nodded, still unsure of that whole backstory, but when he’d repeated what Mickey had told him to say, Damon had grown really quiet, and his face softened in a way Ian had never seen before. “It’s all good now. But fill me in. Who or what is _Esperanza_?”

Mickey smiled. “ _Esperanza_ was Damon’s high school sweetheart. Has her name tattooed on his back, but after he got mixed up with dealing and shit, she kicked him to the curb. Damon says she’s the love of his life. Says he wants to find her again one day. Says he would do anything for her.”

“Oh. Makes sense now. You two talk a lot about that shit?”

“Once or twice maybe.” Mickey winked. “We were high though.”

“Well, thanks for the idea.”

“No problem.” Mickey touched his fingers against the glass, as he’d been doing lately, and Ian lifted his hand to meet them. After a few seconds, Mickey moved closer towards the glass, like he had a big secret to reveal. “Listen. I’ve been thinking about going back to the amusement park, checking on the machine. Maybe it’s working again.”

Ian shook his head. “Not yet. I need more time.”

“The fuck you do! The sooner you’re outta there, the sooner you can start your EMT training. And then I won’t have to worry every fuckin’ minute about you getting shivved.”

“Mick, I’m doin’ alright. And I already told you I can’t go through with being an EMT. They don’t want some nutjob like me on the rig.”

“That’s bullshit. Ian Gallagher doesn’t give up that easily. Think about it. You were 17, but you still found a way into the Army. Hell, you weren’t a go-go dancer, but you still managed to squeeze your ass into those gold booty shorts and—”

“Those are fucking terrible examples,” Ian fumed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Fine. Then let’s go with, you know...uh, how you got that super-closeted Southsider to come out.”

A faint smile crossed Ian’s lips but faded quickly. “I don’t think I was much good for you...or anybody, back then. Fuck, everything went to hell right after you came out. Everything.”

“We had some bad luck is all.” 

“Ha! _You_ had some bad luck. Being stuck with me.”

“Don’t start with that crap, man. I was right where I needed to be. You woulda done the same thing for me. Remember how you stuck by me? Back when we were kids.”

“But then I left you _here_ …alone. You didn’t deserve that.”

Mickey was quiet for a minute, and it seemed like he was agreeing with Ian in his own silent way. “Well, hold on. S’long as we’re confessing...I shouldn’t have roofied Sammi. Bitch had it coming. But that’s not what you needed. You needed me to be there when you came to your damn senses.”

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t have left the military prison with Monica. I wasn’t thinking straight. I wanna believe she meant well. I really do, but she was wrong. I was wrong.”

“Monica’s always had some kinda hold on you. Fuckin’ parents. Can’t believe the way they—”

“And I shouldn’t have broken up with you,” Ian blurted out, finally able to share things he’d been holding inside. “I mean, not like I did. Not after everything...and then you just let those lawyers fuck you over...”

Their eyes met, expressions of remorse and regret painted on their faces. But there was peace, too. The buzzer sounded, breaking the momentary spell they’d cast on each other. 

“Gonna get you out of there,” Mickey said forcefully.

Ian had the same forcefulness in his tone when he replied. “I want you out of here, too. Trust me. Okay? I got this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goal is to post a chapter a week and get this baby finished by November. Thanks for sticking with it!


	20. Mickey

Mickey had a lot to think about on his drive back to the Gallagher house. Because if Ian was taking the bull by the horns and going all out for him, Mickey would have to do the same. Granted, Ian probably didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of springing him from prison anytime soon, but he’d looked so determined in _that_ way. Like he was invincible. 

What made no damn sense was Ian doubting his own ability to become an EMT. Mickey figured he would have to show him otherwise. Or at least give it the old college try.

It had been years since Mickey had cracked a textbook, didn’t have a need to, once he got sent to juvie for the second time and decided to drop out of school. His smarts came from surviving Terry Milkovich’s School Of Hard Knocks, and what good was a fucking piece of paper like a diploma for a guy like him? Mandy had tried unsuccessfully to convince him to get his GED, but Mickey didn’t need to follow convention to make it. 

Or was he just afraid of being a complete and total failure? _Well, fuck that._

As soon as he got back to the house, Mickey hauled ass up the stairs to Ian’s room, ignoring the random gaggle of Gallaghers vegging out in front of the television. He dug through a few boxes in Ian’s closet before finding his EMT prep shit. At least he didn’t need to pass a test—Ian did that part already. It was just a matter of learning enough to convince Rita that he knew what he was doing. 

But first, Mickey had to fess up to Ian’s illness so it didn’t come back later to bite him in the ass. He pulled out Ian’s phone, found Rita’s card, and texted her before he lost his nerve.

_Rita. It’s Ian Gallagher. Was wondering if we could talk about the EMT gig. In person? Thanks._

That was done. Now, onto the next challenge. Mickey searched through the pile of books and papers with Ian’s scribble, finding what looked like the main textbook. He flipped to the first page and noticed how Ian had marked up the book with a highlighter and a pencil. The first words he saw highlighted on the page: _You can make a difference as a vital link in the chain of the healthcare team._

It made him smile, thinking about Ian taking charge in a tense situation, helping everyone else stay calm, and knowing the right thing to do. Ian rarely gave himself enough credit for the way he took care of the people around him. 

Mickey was slowly beginning to understand some of the reasons why Ian had put distance between them. He’d been trying to protect Mickey, do what he thought was best for both of them. Thank fuck he’d been wrong.

^^^^^^^^^^

“Okay. Try this one,” said Carl. “What two factors determine cardiac output?”

Mickey scratched his head, momentarily distracted by the sound of Carl tapping a pencil against the table. “Uh...heart rate and...stroke volume?”

“Yes! Next one. What does the ‘A’ in AVPU stand for?”

“Hmmm...gimme a second.” Another damn acronym. Mickey hated the acronyms, but at least he’d mastered the questions on medication dosages. “It stands for Alert. Alert, Voice, Pain, Unresponsive.”

“Right! And what’s it used for?”

“To measure level of consciousness.”

“Great job, Mickey,” Carl remarked proudly. “We can practice some scenarios next time, but it’s getting late. Ready to head home?”

“Yeah, sure. Better get my beauty rest before my meeting with Rita in the morning.”

It was hard to believe that two weeks had already passed since Mickey started this side project. Carl had been a huge help, meeting him over at the university’s library every evening to quiz Mickey on the materials he’d reviewed. Now he just needed to get past the hurdle of talking to Rita about Ian’s bipolar and convincing her to give him a chance.

“I can punch in for you tomorrow,” Carl offered. 

“No, don’t have to. Told Ron I have a doctor’s appointment. He said I can come in late. Won’t be able to see Ian until Saturday though.”

“Have you said anything to him yet? About all this studying you’re doing?”

Mickey shook his head. “No point unless I can make this thing happen. Don’t want to disappoint him. His life’s hard enough. I don’t care what he says, the guy’s gotta be bored out of his mind. There’s only so much reading you can do in the joint.”

“He seemed okay when we saw him. I mean, it was confusing as fuck because he looked just like you, but at the same time, he was Ian. And he seemed calm. Not afraid or depressed. Not like those times before...when he was sick.”

“Thing is, Carl. He’s bipolar. Always will be. There’s no cure. So he needs to be in a safe place, not surrounded by chaos.”

“Least he’s safe from Gallagher chaos,” joked Carl, then he laid down some wisdom. “Never really said this to anyone, but I’ve always looked up to Ian. He works with what he has. He’s not as smart as Lip, but he’s resourceful. All I’m saying is, Ian’s gonna get through this.”

Mickey could have almost hugged the little shit. “Thanks for saying that, man.” 

Carl was a good kid. A friend even. Maybe it was weird for him to have a fourteen year old friend, grown-ass man that he was, but Mickey didn’t give a shit. People came into your life for all sorts of reasons. 

“C’mon. Let’s get outta here, pick up some pizzas for the crew. On me.” 

^^^^^^^^^^

Mickey woke up to the sound of his alarm the next morning, showered and got dressed in what he figured was Ian’s nicest button-up shirt and pair of pants. He stopped short of putting on a tie, mostly because it would be too formal, and also, he never could tie them quite to his liking—always looked nicer when Ian did it for him. 

Fiona gave him a silent nod of approval when they met briefly in the kitchen, both of them awake before the rest of the house and going for the coffee. They hadn’t spoken much since she’d lectured him about no more freeloading, but he’d recently made his first financial contribution to the household bills and fallen back in her good graces.

“You look nice,” she said, just as he was heading out of the kitchen and towards the front door. He paused and replied, “Thanks,” hesitating just a few seconds too long before she started the inquisition.

“Going to see Mickey?”

“Not today. Might go see him Saturday,” he said through gritted teeth. “That gonna be a problem?”

Fiona held up her hands in surrender. “Nope. Just askin’. I’m good if you’re good.”

“Great.”

“Great.”

At least she hadn’t asked about his meds. For once.

And hell, Mickey would never admit this out loud, but maybe she’d had a point about him finding something productive to do. It made the time go by faster and kept him out of trouble, he figured. 

Mickey was giving Ian a few more weeks before going back to the carnival to find out if that damn machine was working. Hell, maybe he’d try to fix it himself if the old geezer hadn’t done shit about it. Enough was enough. 

But now to focus on the task at hand. Mickey took the L over to the EMT station, rehearsing the words he’d planned to say to Rita, hoping for the chance to set Ian up for success.

He arrived just around 7:30am, and an ambulance was pulling into the station. A dude with mousy brown hair who looked about Ian’s age got out of the driver’s side and noticed him standing there. “Can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah.” Mickey cleared his throat. “Yes. I’m here to see Rita.”

The dude’s face brightened. “Oh. Are you Ian?”

“That’s me.”

“Heard a lot about you, man. Hope you can join the team!” He pointed to a door. “Just head on through there. She’s probably in her office.”

“Thanks, man.”

Mickey noticed a few other uniform-clad people getting out of the ambulance, and he could feel their eyes on him, sizing him up, but they all seemed friendly, Ian’s kind of people. 

Pushing through the door, Mickey noticed a set of lockers and benches, and he scanned the space for Rita’s office, spotting a door half-way open with a sign that read “Supervisor.”

 _It’s now or never_ , he thought to himself, smoothing down the front of his shirt and walking over to the door.

“Excuse me? Rita?” he called out. 

“Yes, come in,” she replied. 

“Good morning,” Mickey remembered his manners as he stepped past the door and waited until she gestured for him to sit down.

“So, that mysterious redhead I spoke to _was_ you. Glad you reached out, Ian.” Rita was just as perky as the day she’d come by the Gallagher house, though her eyes looked tired. Mickey knew she was coming off the night shift, probably not the best time to confess what he needed to confess, but oh well, here they were.

“What is it you wanted to talk about? Far as I’m concerned, you can start your training tomorrow!”

Mickey nodded. “I appreciate that, Rita. And thanks for your patience, especially after it took you coming over to my house to get me back on track. I’ve been looking after a close friend for the past several weeks, but I should have let you know about the reason for not answering your messages.”

“It’s okay. Life happens. What did you need to talk about? Benefits? Salary?” Rita appeared to be multi-tasking, having pulled out a pen to jot something down on some official-looking paperwork.

“No, nothing like that. It’s about... _me. ‘_ Cause I know how important trust is when you’re part of a team.”

“Very true. So what is it?”

Mickey rubbed his palms against the sides of his legs, centering himself. “I, uh, failed to disclose something on my application. I was afraid that I’d be disqualified.”

“Oh?” Rita looked up from the papers in front of her to give him her full attention. 

“Nothing criminal. But here’s the thing. I’m bipolar.”

“Yep. That’s not a crime. Are you under a doctor’s care?”

“Yes...ma’am. But I had a psychotic moment, or uh, what’s it called? A psychotic break. I was hospitalized several months ago.”

“I see.”

“I made the decision to be admitted to the psych ward. I wanted to get better. I wanted to get help.”

Rita’s brow was furrowed, and she seemed to be choosing her next words carefully. “Ian, I’m glad to hear that, but you need to know...we have certain—”

“Rules. Sure, I know. But I needed you to see the real me, not just some statistic on a piece of paper. I’m not making excuses, I’m not, but you came to my house. I don’t come from much.” Mickey could feel his voice wavering, but then he thought about Ian being next to him in the room, telling him to keep going. “My older sister had to raise us kids because my dad only shows up in about once a month for his government check, and my mom is bipolar. _Untreated._ My whole life, I’ve seen examples of who I don’t want to be, what I don’t want to become.”

Mickey had kept his eyes on Rita while he spoke, wanting her to know how sincere he was. 

She was a good listener. _Kind_. “I appreciate you being so honest. So forthcoming. Really, Ian.”

“But?”

“But I can’t jeopardize the safety of my staff, the safety of the community we serve.”

“Rita,” Mickey began, “I’m not dangerous. I’m a mentally ill person who is aware of his illness and getting help. I’m asking for a chance, and I want to help people like me. We don’t deserve to be treated like we’re any less.”

“I agree. In theory,” Rita added, still not quite convinced. “But guess who’s liable if something goes wrong?”

“I understand. So what about a trial basis? You’ll see that I’m every bit as good as the candidate you wanted to hire. Remember that guy with the perfect score you were so excited about?”

Rita’s expression had softened somewhat. Maybe she was starting to thaw?

“I need some time to think about it.”

“Of course. Please think it over. Just know that when I believe in something, I’m in all the way. I won’t let you down.” Mickey knew it was time for him to go. He’d laid out a pretty decent argument and made a reasonable offer, hopeful that Rita would go for it. He nodded politely and made his way back outside, giving a friendly return wave to the bed-head dude from earlier.

On his ride over to the university, Mickey decided he was on a roll with doing shit that maybe he wouldn’t ordinarily do. And he’d been thinking about how Ian told him to get in touch with Mandy. He missed her, and he didn’t know when he’d get the chance to see her in person again and pat her on the head and ruffle her hair, like she used to hate. So he texted her before he lost his nerve. 

_Hey, Mandy. You doing alright?_

Mickey waited for her reply, and he thought of questions he’d really like to ask her. Like, was she shacked up with some dude who’d leave her cash on the nightstand? Was she lonely? Or did she feel free, in control of her decisions? A few minutes later, she responded.

_Ian! I’m good. Thought I mighta scared you off with my text about Mickey from a few weeks ago. But I heard through the grapevine you’ve been visiting him?_

_Yeah. We’re talking again,_ Mickey replied.

_Finally. I’m happy for you idiots. Has he told you about the hearing?_

The hearing. What hearing? _No. Not yet._

_Oh, fuck. He probably wanted to surprise you. I won’t say anything else._

Shit. What was Ian up to? _Okay, won’t tell him you told me. We never had this conversation._

_Exactly. There’s a lot of things that never happened. Right?_

What the fuck was she talking about? Mickey didn’t want to know and figured it wasn’t any of his business. He’d always admired Mandy and Ian’s close friendship and didn’t want to be a nosy fuck. Instead, he changed the subject. _Let’s meet for coffee soon. Catch up?_

 _Okay. I’ll get back into town late Sunday,_ Mandy replied.

 _How about Monday?_ Mickey asked. _Beer works, too. Text me when and where._

_Will do. See you soon!_

Mickey stuffed Ian’s phone back in his pocket and leaned back in his seat, a feeling of calm washing over him, this flash of relief that everything was going to be okay. It was definitely an uncomfortable and strange sensation, to be free of worry, even for a few seconds. 

And Mickey felt it again a few hours later when he got a text from Rita. He was scrubbing toilets in the third floor restroom of the library when it came through. 

_Okay, Ian. Let’s see what you’re made of. You can start next week. Don’t make me regret this._

^^^^^^^^^^

After turning in his notice to Ron, Mickey was expecting to be fired and escorted off the premises right then and there. Instead, Ron told him he could work the rest of the week. “I mean, you’re a jackass for quitting, but at least I can squeeze a few more days work outta you while I look for your replacement.”

Mickey was finding it very hard not to share his good news with Ian during their phone calls that week. He was dying to ask Ian about EMT shit, like how he would handle some of the scenarios he’d been going over with Carl. He could picture Ian getting all excited and geeking out and talking him through the right approach to certain situations. 

Saturday came around, and Mickey was practically bursting at the seams, music cranked and banging on the steering wheel during his drive over to the prison. He figured once he shared the news about the EMT gig, then maybe Ian would open up about the hearing Mandy had mentioned.

“Have a surprise for you,” Mickey said as soon as Ian picked up the receiver.

“Yeah? I have one, too. Well, more than one.”

“That so?” Mickey quirked his eyebrows as high as they would go. “‘Cause I know you’ve been up to something. You’re a terrible liar.” 

“Me?” Ian scoffed. “You’re _also_ a terrible liar. So who’s going first?”

“Guess I will. Here goes. You, Ian Gallagher, are looking at an official EMT trainee who is starting his new job, trial basis, on...Tuesday.”

“What?” Ian said slowly. “EMT? How did you—”

“Been studying. Probably more in these past few weeks than my whole life. And I already talked to Rita about your bipolar. Told her about you gettin’ help and being on meds and deserving a chance.” Mickey was watching Ian’s expression as it changed from confused to awestruck and back to confused.

“Wait. Are you fucking with me? Rita’s okay with me being bipolar? And my stint at the psych ward?”

“Seems I was very persuasive.”

“So _you’re_ gonna be an EMT? Shit.” Ian probably didn’t mean to sound like a condescending asshole, but he kinda did.

“Not as good as you’d be, apparently, but close as I can.”

“That’s not how I meant it.”

“Uh-huh. Don’t worry. Went through all your study guides. Twice. And I know it’s different to actually do the shit in real life, but I kinda see why you like it.”

“Mick, that’s so...wow!” His blue eyes were shining with gratitude. “That means a lot to me.”

“I figure now you’ll be more eager about switchin’ back so I don’t fuck things up with your new job and ruin your reputation.”

“Just shut up, and let me say ‘thanks.’ Seriously, Mick. I can’t believe you did all that for me,” Ian said with this dopey grin. “Or maybe I can.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey said quickly, though he was secretly pleased by Ian’s overall reaction. “So tell me your big secret before that damn buzzer goes off.”

Ian paused dramatically. “So...Tuesday. I get to make a statement, as you, in front of a judge…” Another dramatic pause. Mickey would have kicked him if there hadn’t been a barrier between them.

“And?”

“For a possible resentencing!”

“A what?”

“A resentencing. Because your public defender screwed you over with that plea bargain. He didn’t pull together evidence in your favor or push the prosecutor for a more appropriate deal. Apparently, the asshole was mixed up with a cartel and spending more time making deals with gang members than defending his clients.”

“Huh. Yeah, he was pretty shitty,” agreed Mickey, trying to remember his lawyer, Wells somebody, though most of those weeks after his arrest were a blur.

“Mandy’s attorney friend pulled some strings and got your case some attention. Otherwise, you could have been stuck here way longer than what was reasonable.”

“So what are we talking? 10 years instead of 15?” _Big fucking deal_ , thought Mickey, though he didn’t want to burst Ian’s bubble.

“More like, _a year or two_ ,” Ian said softly, starting to sound like he was choking up, the hopefulness and the possibility hitting him hard, now that he was saying it out loud. Mickey felt it too, but he wasn't going to let his guard down. He refused to believe that any good was heading his way.

“We’ll see,” he responded with a shrug. “What else you got?”

Ian looked like he was expecting this kind of reaction but had been hoping for something different.

“Uh, well, seems like we’ve both been studying. I got your—”

The buzzer sounded, starting both of them.

“Your GED,” finished Ian.

“‘Course you did. Nerd.”

“It’ll look good on your record. But Mick, I can’t call you tomorrow. I have a meeting with Dan. Monday, okay?” he said quickly, looking over his shoulder at the guards. “Love you.”

“Thanks, Ian. I’ll talk to you soon. Er, uh...love you, too.”

^^^^^^^^^^

It was a lot, thinking about how determined Ian was to help him, thinking about the possibility of being able to walk out of prison a free man—in a matter of months instead of years. And not by means of sleeping with a guard and going on the run for the rest of his life. Ian had done everything legit.

Mickey spent most of Sunday in Ian’s room, EMT books cracked, watching episodes of _Chicago Fire_ on Netflix to get him in the spirit of things. He’d take breaks every so often, going downstairs into the kitchen for something to drink and a smoke on the back porch. Debbie was down there around lunchtime, and she shoved Franny into his arms. “Here,” she said. “I need a break.”

“And? You figured good old uncle Ian had nothing better to do with his time? Maybe I’m busy.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Debbie tried to pull the infant back into her arms, but Mickey turned away, still cradling her.

“Just fuckin’ with you. I can hold her for a few minutes while you run a brush through that hot mess.” Mickey nodded towards Debbie’s hair and turned his attention to Franny, realizing how weightless she felt in his arms. _Innocent._ Holding her reminded him of a few quiet moments he’d had with Yev when he was a baby. Kid wasn’t like this at all now, Mickey knew that, and he also knew it’d be awhile before he’d be ready to see him again. 

Debbie must have sensed something was up, patting “Ian” on the back and taking Franny from him. “That’s right, Franny bear. You’re a ginger, just like your mommy and your uncle,” she said sweetly and proceeded to put Franny in a stroller. “Going for a walk. Wanna come?” Debbie asked him. 

“Uh, no thanks. Still doing some studying. Don’t wanna fuck up my new gig.”

Debbie nodded and smiled. “You’ve got a lot going on. Good things. I’m glad you’re talking to Mickey again.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. We all need that _someone_. And you found yours. Don’t think I’ll ever find mine, but at least one of us Gallaghers did.” 

And that right there was all Mickey needed to get right back into the swing of things, instead of wallowing in his past mistakes, his past failures, and worrying that he was just going to fuck everything up because a Milkovich wasn’t supposed to have nice things.

^^^^^^^^^^

Mickey slept okay Sunday night, but the next morning, he woke up to a combination of feeling anxious, excited, and overwhelmed. Carl, the little angel that he was, skipped his morning classes to hang out and run scenarios with him.

And later in the day, Mickey got what he needed to stay cool and collected—his call from Ian. 

“Did you get the EMT uniform yet? How’s it fit?” were Ian’s first questions.

“I did. Blue looks good on you,” Mickey told him. “Nervous ‘bout the hearing tomorrow?”

“Hell no...” 

“Really, tough guy?” Mickey could tell that Ian was full of shit just from his tone.

“Yeah, maybe. A lot. Don’t wanna fuck this up for you.”

“Ha! I still can’t believe you’re doing it. But if anyone can make _me_ sound like an upstanding citizen, it’s you. ‘Sides, I got my own worries. Your first day of training tomorrow. Talk about not wanting to fuck up.”

“Maybe you’ll actually like it? And you have your GED now. You can take the certification when all of this is behind us.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t that be funny as fuck? Me and you saving lives together.”

“Jesus. They’d never let us go out on a rig together. Seeing you in that uniform, don’t know if I’d be able to concentrate.”

Mickey laughed. “Cool it, lover boy. There’s one more thing I didn’t get to tell you about on Saturday.”

“What is it?”

“I’m meeting Mandy tonight. Wanted to see her in person. Even though I’ll have to pretend to be you. Despite your best efforts in front of the judge, it could still be awhile.”

“Mick...that’s great. Tell her I said ‘hello.’”

“Guess I can do that. Since she knows we’re talking again. Hey, listen. I know you get nervous sometimes, but just do your thing tomorrow. Whatever happens, you’ve already shown me how much you—”

“Hey! Whatever happens, Mick, we’re in this together. We’ll keep fighting. I’ll try to call you afterwards, okay? Good or bad, just remember I’m with you. For the long haul.”

A few weeks ago, Mickey would have laughed bitterly at that statement, coming from Ian Gallagher. But now, he knew that Ian meant it through and through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me go ahead and acknowledge that I made up a bunch of legal shit for this fic, but we'll all pretend it's real. :)


	21. Mickey & Ian

**Mickey**

He wouldn’t stay long. Just long enough for a quick cup of coffee. Not beer. Mickey remembered that “Ian” shouldn’t be drinking with his meds, so he wanted to be compliant in front of Mandy. It was very possible she would sense something was off with her best friend, knowing him the way she did.

She’d picked a hipster coffee place with overpriced drinks and ugly-ass furniture. Mickey was seated on a cushioned chair with vibrant stripes, waiting for her to arrive as his mind wandered back to dinner with the Gallaghers earlier that evening. Everyone had been unusually quiet. Even Fiona. They’d asked him about his EMT job but said nothing else. Nothing about Mickey. He wasn’t sure who knew what about the hearing. He hadn’t mentioned it to Carl. 

As the bell jingled, Mickey turned his attention to the front door of the coffee shop. His sister walked inside, eyes searching for her best friend, a wide smile forming on her nicely made-up face when she spotted him. Her hair was still blonde, as it had been when she’d visited Mickey months ago, but it was a dull color, and she was much too thin, Mickey decided. Fuck, he’d been a dumbass to take her off his visitor’s list, not wanting to be seen, when he should have been keeping eyes on her.

He shook away the pang of guilt as she came towards him, slowly outstretching her arms, as though she was unsure if “Ian” would want to give her a hug. Well, Mickey sure did, so he wrapped his arms around her, realizing he was going to crush her if he didn’t let go.

“Geez, go easy on me,” she laughed. “Don’t even know your own strength.”

“Sorry, just missed ya, is all,” he explained, and they migrated over to a vacant table. Mickey offered to get their drinks. “What’ll it be? Something to fatten you up.”

“Shut up, Mr. Organic Smoothie Guy. There’s nothing wrong with my weight. Just get me a scone and a nonfat cappuccino. Please.”

“In that case, I’m gonna ask for extra fat,” he teased, winking at Mandy as he went to place their order.

When he returned to the table, Mandy was typing something into her phone, her fingers working furiously, and Mickey noticed a couple of fancy-looking rings on her hands.

“Nice bling,” he said, setting her drink and scone down in front of her.

“Huh? Oh, you mean these?” Mandy put her phone down and held up her hands, letting the light catch the cuts of shiny stones. “Aren’t they pretty? Gifts from admirers. It’s nice to not go without. I don’t miss having to scrounge around for every last cent.”

“So things are okay?”

“They’re good. About the same as when I last saw you. Only, you know, no dead guys.” She forced a half-smile before taking a sip from her mug.

Mickey had no clue what she was talking about, didn’t think he wanted to know, would maybe ask Ian eventually. He changed the subject. “Well, your friend Dan sure has come in handy.”

“Right?” she nodded. “I just wish Mickey would have listened before. He’s so fucking stubborn.”

“Hey!” Mickey almost shouted but then tempered his voice. “He’s got every reason not to trust the system.”

“Yeah, that’s true. I’m guessing you might have played a part in changing his mind?” Mandy ran her fingers along his arm in a teasing motion. “Well? Spill. How’s it going with you guys? How is my brother?”

Mickey took a sip of his Columbian dark roast before answering her. It was beyond strange to be having this casual conversation with her...about himself. “He’s okay. We’re back together. Haven’t really put titles to shit. Kinda hard to do.”

“I know, babe. But please try not to break Mickey’s heart again.” Mandy was squeezing his hand, and “Ian” must have given her his wounded puppy look (where the hell did that come from?) because her tone changed. “Jesus, Ian. I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair of me to say. You guys have both had it rough. And you have to do what you think is best. I just hope Dan can get him out of there soon.”

“Don’t worry about it. I don’t expect you to take sides. You’ve been there since the beginning.”

“Well, not exactly the beginning.” Mandy flipped her hair behind her shoulders. “Since you kept your _relationship_ with Mickey a secret.”

“Relationship. Ha!”

“You were always asking me for advice about ‘some guy,’ remember?”

“Did I?” This got Mickey’s curiosity going. “Think you woulda told him—uh— _me_ anything different if you’d known it was Mickey?”

Mandy laughed. “Don’t know what I would have said. Might not have believed you since I had no idea my brother was gay.”

Mickey cleared his throat. “Not the kind of thing he coulda just blurted out.”

“True.” Mandy patted his hand. “But I’m glad you could confide in me. I hope I helped you.”

”Yeah, you did.” Mickey knew this to be true beyond a shadow of a doubt.

”Well, since _you_ have pull now with Mickey now, would you tell the asshole to add me back to his visitors list? He doesn’t call as often as he should, so I’m gonna need to take matters into my own hands.”

“Alright, I will,” Mickey promised.

They chatted for another half hour, some about the old neighborhood, some about Ian’s new job, and some about Mandy going back to school once she’d saved up enough money. It was a nice change, being able to talk to her as a friend. Mickey wanted to be able to do more of that eventually.

Funny, Mickey thought he would be the one to bow out first, but this hadn’t been as awkward as he’d feared. Mandy was the one who got a text and said she needed to get going. He collected their trash and met her out front.

“This was nice, Ian. Doing something grown-up together,” she said. “Let’s do it again soon.”

“Definitely. One more hug?” he asked, surprising himself but really craving physical contact with someone he loved. It had been a long time.

“Sure, weirdo.”

After they’d parted from the hug, Mandy said brightly, “You know who gives great hugs? Mickey.”

This was news to him. He couldn’t remember being very affectionate with this sister. They’d been taught from a young age to shy away from physical touch—it made you weak and vulnerable, unless you were throwing punches. 

“You think?”

“I mean, you’ve probably had a whole lot more of them than I ever did, but they were always the best. Maybe because they were so rare.”

Mickey forced a laugh to mask the tears he felt welling up. He wasn’t sure how he got the next words out, but somehow he managed. “I think...if Mickey were here right now, he’d want me to tell you thanks for never giving up on him. And he loves you. He’ll always be your big brother.”

Mandy pressed her hand against her chest. “Why are you trying to make me cry?”

“Sorry,” said Mickey, biting back his own tears.

Mandy shook her head and distracted them both by reaching into her purse and handing “Ian” a small plastic bag. “Here. A gift. For old times sake. Open it later. Enjoy.”

* * *

**  
Ian**

He’d told Paulie about his hearing a week before he told Mickey. Paulie had been happy for him. There wasn’t a jealous bone in his bunkmate’s body, and he’d kept quiet about Mickey’s news. When word got out, probably via one of the loud-mouth guards, there was plenty of talk, some good and some not-so-good. Fortunately, there were enough inmates who had Mickey’s back. But he’d made it to Monday night without incident, showered, and was going over his notes when Paulie climbed down from the top bunk to take a leak.

“Nervous about tomorrow?” he asked.

“Some,” Ian replied.

“Whatever you do, kid, don’t start openly weeping like you did that one night.”

Ian put his papers down and sat up against the wall of his bunk. Clearly, Paulie wasn’t talking about the last several weeks—any weeping Ian had done was quietly into his pillow. “Huh? What do you mean? When?”

Paulie smirked as he dried off his hands. “Figured you wouldn’t remember. I found you and Damon in the rec room, acting like a couple of idiots. Sent him off with Cortez and brought you back here. Not sure what you morons were doped up on, but you were babbling incoherently...and singing.”

“Oh yeah?” This actually seemed like a pretty interesting story. It wasn’t often that Mickey got high and completely let loose. Mostly, he’d get quiet and zone out, then get angry as fuck and want to beat the shit out of someone.

“That was the first time I ever heard you talk about Ian. I mean, by name. Before, it was always, ‘just this asshole I used to fuck.’ Even that was rare, you bringing him up. But you sure had a lot to say that one night.”

Ian gulped. Was it wrong for him to keep asking Paulie questions? He figured Mickey had been privy to some of what he’d said about his ex, and no, not all of it had been complimentary, but mostly, that was just Ian trying to convince himself that he needed to move on. 

“Anything in particular that you remember? I’m asking because, uh, I’ll have to tell Ian about this,” he explained. “He’ll get a kick out of it.”

“Hmmmm. Something about missing him. Wanting to be with him, I think. Needing to know if he was alright. Corny shit like that. It was actually kinda sweet, you letting your guard down for once.”

It had taken mind-altering drugs for Mickey to verbalize his repressed feelings. Thank fuck he’d been with Paulie, who hadn’t made a big thing out of Mickey being vulnerable. That was definitely not a good look in the joint. 

“Anyway,” said Paulie, “I guess it all worked out, huh? It wasn’t long after that night that Ian found his way back into your life. And now, depending on tomorrow, you might be together sooner than you ever imagined.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” agreed Ian, getting lost in thought, trying to picture Mickey, how he must have been high as a kite to say all that.

Paulie turned in, and Ian figured he should get some sleep, too, but he still wanted to look over what he’d written for Mickey’s statement to the judge a few more times. 

After scribbling a few more notes on the page and stuffing them into a book, Ian dozed off, but something was gnawing at him. Those things Mickey had said about him—they sounded very _familiar_. So familiar, in fact, that Ian found himself, after he finished brushing his teeth, saying out loud to absolutely no one, what he imagined Mickey might have said. 

_“I want to be with him. I need to know what he’s doing, how he’s feeling, if he’s alright.”_

Ian dropped his toothbrush and stumbled backwards, his back colliding with the side of Paulie’s part of the bunk. “Holy shit!” he yelled, causing Paulie to stir but not wake up completely. Ian’s heart was racing as he paced back and forth in the small space of their cell. “Shit, shit, shit! No! No fucking way! Wait ‘til I tell Mickey. He’s going to shit himself. That must be how it happened! We said the same damn thing. At the same time. And that’s how we switch back!”

Ian heard a loud voice from a nearby cell. “For the love of Christ, Milkovich, shut the fuck up!”

Not to be outdone and weirdly energetic with this wild epiphany, “Mickey” yelled back to whoever was bitching at him, “You shut the fuck up, asswipe.” He left it at that, not trying to stir up any shit. No, now was not the time, considering what he was about to do tomorrow for Mickey. And considering he finally had a working theory for how they’d switched places. He wanted to hop up on Paulie’s bunk and give him a great big hug.

Instead, Ian laid back down and closed his eyes, trying desperately to fall asleep so that “Mickey” wouldn’t look like shit at this hearing, but those words he’d said—that they’d both said and felt at the same time—played over and over again in his mind. _I want to be with him. I need to know what he’s doing, how he’s feeling, if he’s alright._

He eventually fell asleep and dreamed about a princess, in a tattered blue dress and a plaid button up shirt covering her shoulders. She was wandering aimlessly around an amusement park, eventually stumbling upon a wish machine with her very own animatronic Fairy Godmother.

The cheerful, matronly robot cooed: “And what wish is in your heart today, dear?”

* * *

**  
Mickey**

After saying goodbye to Mandy, Mickey took the L home, getting off one stop early to walk around. He was nervous for Ian, he was nervous for himself. But they had to do these things, right? They had to keep trying, stay in motion, not slow down, not stop, couldn’t stop, shouldn’t stop. 

He’d thought about grabbing a beer at the Alibi. It would be nice to lay eyes on Kevin and V. They were always good about checking in on how “Ian” was doing, and he liked their banter as a couple—seemed healthy. Instead, he did sort of a walking tour of places that reminded him of Ian—the old Kash & Grab and the ballfield. Mickey even willed his feet to carry him past the Milkovich homestead.

There were a few lights on, he noticed, and a window open. The front of the house looked as shitty as ever, the porch piled high with junk. For all the horrors he’d endured in that house, it would forever be the place where Ian came looking for him with a crowbar and where they’d eventually tried to have some semblance of an adult relationship. Of course, they’d been in way over their heads, playing house and Mickey trying to do the best he could to pretend that Ian was okay. Until he wasn’t.

Once all this prison shit was behind them, Mickey wanted them to get their own place. They needed a fresh start. And jobs. Real jobs. And routine, the most boring fucking existence they could pull off—at least, for awhile.

He resisted the urge to go any closer to the house and headed in the direction of the Gallaghers, thinking back to his conversation with Ian from earlier in the day. They’d only talked briefly over the phone, both of them struggling to find the right words to say.

Mickey headed inside to an empty front room and stopped by the kitchen for a beer to calm his nerves, _just one_ , he’d say, if anybody asked about alcohol messing with his meds. The house was oddly quiet, which was a nice change for once. After taking his coat off and throwing it on the back of a kitchen chair, Mickey heard a clanging in one of his pockets and remembered that Mandy had given him something before they’d gone their separate ways.

He pulled the bag from his pocket, mildly curious about the contents but more interested in finishing his beer and some shut-eye. Mickey stuffed the bag in his pants pocket and went upstairs to wash his face and brush his teeth. Big day tomorrow. 

Back in Ian’s room, Mickey stripped down to his boxers and decided to see what Mandy had gifted him. He opened the plastic bag and looked inside. There were a few small bottles of nitrous. _Oh hell no_ he wasn’t gonna fool with this shit now, not when he had training the next day and needed to focus. 

Rita had texted him earlier in the day. _Pack a lunch, kid. See you tomorrow._ Mickey needed to prove himself to Rita and the team, yet he’d probably barely be able to function, worried about Ian and the hearing and whatever the fuck their future was going to hold. 

He’d had a bad reaction the last time he’d done nitrous several weeks ago. Matter of fact, the last time was with Damon, right around the time he and Ian had switched places. Paulie had come to his rescue afterwards, or so he claimed, having found Mickey and Damon making asses of themselves in the rec room. It was all a blur, except Mickey remembered bawling his eyes out, but Paulie was smart enough never to bring it up again. 

Mickey put the bag in the drawer of his nightstand, figuring Carl would be happy to get his hands on it. He turned off his light and got into bed, trying to turn his mind off. But his thoughts went to what Ian was doing at the moment, what he was thinking and feeling about their situation and being back together. How were they actually going to survive this if Mickey stayed locked up for another decade, even for another few years?

He tossed and turned, eventually landing on his back and starting into the darkness. Mickey shook his head, trying to get rid of any lingering doubts about Ian’s loyalty and reminding himself that things were different now. That emptiness he’d been feeling was mostly gone now. 

Flashes from that night when he was high on the nitrous were coming back to him. Paulie was there, patting his hand, looking all concerned and handing him sheets of toilet paper to dry his eyes. Mickey was talking about Ian, opening up the floodgates with his inhibitions down. What had he been going on and on about to Paulie? Wanting to make sure Ian was okay, in spite of himself. All of a sudden, Mickey remembered his exact words.

“I want to be with _him_ ,” he’d said. “I need to know what he’s doing, how he’s feeling, if he’s alright.”

Jesus, his feelings for Ian ran so fucking deep, and despite trying to bury them down as far as they would go, it was inevitable—Mickey needed Ian. And not long after that night, they’d found their way back to each other. In the most fucked-up way possible of course. Just their luck.

* * *

**  
Ian**

Weird. It sounded like an alarm was going off. He leaned over to hit the “Stop” button on his phone. Was Ian dreaming? 

As he opened his eyes, he noticed there was something different about the air, too. The particles of dust in the room were floating in actual sunlight, not fluorescent light. Strange. The tiny window above Paulie’s bed didn’t usually let in that much light. 

Actually, everything seemed different that morning. Ian had this strange sensation of having had his guts rearranged and then put back together in their proper place. Was this because he overdid it on Taco Monday in the cafeteria? (Because of course they couldn’t have Taco Tuesday in the prison, that would be too normal.) And they couldn’t use actual beef in the tacos, that would be too humane.

But no, he didn’t feel sick, just...different. Like he could finally stretch his legs. And were his eyes playing tricks on him, or was he wearing actual boxers? His favorite boxers. 

“Noooooooo!” he yelled, the echo of his voice bouncing off the walls of the room. _His room._

Ian leaped from the bed, fingers moving across his bare chest, eyes searching for Mickey’s botched tattoo and not finding it. He held his hands up in front of him, hoping to see the signature FUCK U-UP letters he’d grown accustomed to. They were gone.

 _How did this happen? And why now? Fuck._ Yes, he wanted to switch back eventually, and maybe the rational side of him was the tiniest bit relieved, but he was so close to doing something for Mickey, proving how much he loved and valued him. It wasn’t enough if he couldn’t see it through.

Ian found his phone on the nightstand. It was weird to be able to pick it up, to have this freedom back. He still remembered his passcode. _0810._

Ian frantically looked for _Mandy_ in his contacts and called her. No answer. Probably too early, but he left her a message anyway.

“Mandy! Can you get in touch with Dan? Tell him I need to talk to Mickey. Tell him it’s an emergency!”

There was a knock on the door. “Ian? You okay?” He knew that voice. Fiona. It was Fiona. He wanted to throw the door open and give her a huge hug. But now was not the time. 

“I’m fine,” he replied weakly. 

“You sure? I heard a bunch of yellin’. Don’t you have work today? Started the coffee, and I’m makin’ eggs.”

 _Shit. Fuck. Damn._ Work. His first day as an EMT. And Mickey had worked his ass off to get ready for this opportunity. 

“Uh, thanks! I’ll be down in a minute.”

Ian needed to get to the prison right away. But it’s not like they’d let him see Mickey. The courthouse? Maybe he could find Dan and relay a message to Mickey, at least to let him know they were in this together. _Okay, think Gallagher, think. I could go into work, fake being sick, and leave early. Maybe. But I’m a terrible actor. And that would look really bad on my first day._

Ian glanced over to his closet door at the freshly pressed EMT uniform. Mickey must have asked one of the Gallaghers to iron it. Maybe going into work would be the best thing for Ian after all. A distraction could be a good thing.

Decision made, Ian headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face. Again, he collided with the strange reality of having his freedom back—no one watching him, no need to constantly look over his shoulder. Standing in front of the sink, he came face to face with his old self, staring back at him in the mirror.

 _Is this real? Am I really here?_ Ian tilted his face in various angles. _Yep, seems real._ Which meant Mickey was likely having the same realization. And instead of waking up to freedom, like Ian had, Mickey would be, once again, bound to the soul-crushing boredom of prison-life. But hopefully, not eight to fifteen more years of it.

Ian got dressed and remembered to take his meds. The bottles on his nightstand were nearly empty, which meant Mickey had been keeping up appearances for him. He went downstairs into the kitchen, literally stumbling backwards when he realized that all of his siblings were at the kitchen table. Some looked more awake than others.

“There he is!” exclaimed Fiona. “Come eat! We all wanted to be here for your big day.”

“Go get ‘em, little bro,” said Lip, raising a glass of OJ, which Ian hoped wasn’t spiked with booze. Mickey hadn’t said much about Lip’s drinking, but Carl had filled him in.

“And good luck to Mickey, too,” Lip added.

Fiona kicked Lip under the table. “You weren’t supposed to say anything.”

“Ian doesn’t care. Right, man?” Lip asked, patting the seat next to him. “You’ll let us know how Mickey’s hearing goes?

Ian was practically speechless, tears welling up in his eyes. Instead of joining his siblings at the table, he went around and gave each of them a hug from behind. By the time he got to Carl, he was visibly crying, and Carl whispered to him, “Are you for real right now?”

“Yeah,” he croaked. “It’s me. I’m back.”

All eyes were on the two of them, and Ian couldn’t hide a wide-ass grin as he watched the look of doubt and confusion on Carl’s face. And then, the light bulb came on.

“W-wait, what?” Carl dropped his fork, and it clattered against his plate. He practically jumped out of his seat to face his older brother. “Ian? It’s really you? What the fuck? Oh my God!”

Carl grabbed him around his midsection, trapping both of his arms against his body, hugging him like he was about to wrestle him to the ground. Ian managed a laugh, especially when Carl attempted to lift him up and managed to get him about an inch off the ground. When he finally let go, Ian clapped him on the back and pulled him in for another hug.

“Guys? What’s going on?” asked Debbie. She’d been giving Franny a bottle but now seemed distracted by the spectacle of her two brothers being weirdly and over-the-top affectionate with each other.

“What?” said Carl quickly, shrugging off her comment. “I didn’t see much of him yesterday.”

“So fuckin’ weird,” she mumbled.

“They’ve become really close lately, yeah?” Lip noted. 

Ian nodded and was finally able to gather words to form a coherent sentence. “Guys. Thanks. I’m so happy to see you. I’m just—”

Fiona got up from the table to give Ian another hug. “You’re _just_ gonna be late if you don’t quit this blubberin’. Let me wrap up some food for you to take on the L.”

Ian looked over at Carl. “Ride with me on the L?”

“Yeah, sure,” he nodded. “Let me grab your lunch. You know, the one you packed yesterday?” Carl winked at him. 

“Right, right. Thanks.”

Fiona shoved a paper plate with an egg and bacon sandwich in his hands, and Carl grabbed their jackets and Ian’s lunch.

“Love you guys,” Ian said, walking backwards towards the front door, everything happening so fast, he could barely keep up, but this was starting to feel right, almost like he’d never been gone. There was just one person missing, and Ian hoped to God that Mickey was taking all of this in stride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Tell me. How did you see the switch happening?
> 
> When I started this story, I knew I wanted the switch to happen because of something they were both feeling.


	22. Mickey & Ian

**Mickey**

That smell. It was back, filling his nostrils, making him want to gag. That smell of man-sweat and dirty socks, mixed with bleach and other unnamed chemicals. Mickey knew where he was, even before he opened his eyes. 

_Fuck!_ If he’d known this is where he was going to wake up, he would have paid a visit to his favorite hamburger joint the night before.

_But how did this happen?_

Mickey rubbed his eyes, still not ready to face this familiar reality, though a part of him was relieved to back in his own skin. Probably the part that was tired of banging his head into doorways. 

Paulie was moving around in their cell, getting ready for the day and sounding all upbeat and shit. Humming some damn tune. It was already giving Mickey a headache.

“Jesus, will you shut the fuck up!” he shouted—out of habit.

Paulie got quiet all of a sudden, and Mickey groggily sat up and heard his bunk mate mutter “asshole.”

Mickey almost smiled, realizing he’d missed his roommate, but then he was gripped with a really fucking strange sensation—panic. Today was the hearing, and Ian was the one who knew what to say. Ian was the one who could have charmed the judge.

_Ian. He’s gotta be up by now. I set the alarm for 6am. Fuck, how’s he handling this?_

“Get up on the wrong side of the bed, Milkster? I was gettin’ used to your softer side.”

“My _what_?”

“Your softer side. Dunno how to explain it. You just haven’t been a complete intolerable jackass lately. I guess we have _Ian_ to thank for that?”

 _More than you know, Paulie. More than you know._ “Well, thanks for having my back, especially these past few weeks.” Mickey paused, then admitted, “Guess I haven’t always been the nicest.”

“Save it,” scoffed Paulie, moving towards the door of their cell. “You’re just getting all sentimental ‘cause of your hearing. You’ll be out of this place before you know it.”

Mickey got up from his bunk and steadied himself, hoping Paulie wouldn’t notice the fact that he was getting adjusted to being back in his own body. “Right. _The hearing_ ,” he muttered. “Fuck, what am I gonna say to that judge?”

Paulie laughed. “You practically wrote a whole damn speech. And then rewrote it. It’s still not good enough?”

The buzzer sounded for breakfast. “Shit!” yelled Mickey, realizing he needed to get used to falling back in line. He sat down on his bunk, shoved his shoes on and shuffled through the stack of papers and books Ian had left next to the bed. “Where did I put it?” Mickey asked loud enough that he hoped Paulie would help him out.

“Check _War and Peace._ But hurry the fuck up. Time to eat!”

Mickey located the biggest book in the stack, remembering _War and Peace_ as one of the books he’d used to run drugs in his setup with Iggy. Ian’s copy of the book was intact and lacking the secret compartment for storing things. Super nerd Ian was actually reading the damn thing. Mickey thumbed through it quickly, finding the notes Ian had made and stuffing them down the front of his uniform. 

It made Mickey smile, thinking about Ian being such a bookworm, thinking about Ian in general. He was weirdly...happy? Despite the fact that he was back in this hell hole, despite the fact that he had a few hours to decide what he was going to say to the judge, and despite the fact that a small voice in the back of his mind was telling him to be careful where Ian was concerned. But he brushed that thought away. Things were different this time. Both of them were different now.

* * *

**Ian**

Ian’s mind was racing. He was distracted by the sights of the city whirling by, thinking about Mickey at breakfast in the prison cafeteria with his crew, and trying to recall things from his EMT textbook so he wouldn’t look like a complete moron on his first day. 

_Okay, what happens when a patient presents with altered mental status? Remember the acronym: AEIOU TIPS - Alcohol, epilepsy, infection, opiates, uremia, trauma, insulin, poisoning, and strokes._

“Ian? You okay?” Carl asked. They were seated side by side on the train, Ian with his legs stretched out in front of him.

“Yeah. But my mind is all over the place.”

“At least it’s in the right body,” Carl joked, and Ian managed a laugh because he knew Carl had some idea of what he’d been going through.

“It’s really good to be back. I’ll never be able to repay you for how you helped us.”

“Don’t have to. We’re family,” Carl reminded him. “Besides, it was a good distraction. I was just out of juvie, lost my friend Nick, and then Dominique kicked me to the curb.”

“I’m sorry about all that shit you’ve been going through.”

“Yeah. The cost of being a Gallagher,” Carl replied. “Thank fuck Mickey talked me out of getting my junk cut.”

“Wise decision,” said Ian, realizing that Carl would probably rather not hear the intimate details of how much he’d enjoyed firsthand and secondhand, Mikhailo Milkovich’s fully intact penis.

Carl changed the subject. “So what do you think caused the switch in the first place? Any ideas?” 

“Pretty sure we were thinking about each other at the same time. And we must have said the same thing at the same time, when I made that wish.” Ian shrugged. “Still don’t have an explanation for the whole magic part though.”

“And the same thing happened last night?”

“Kind of. I guess? I still can’t believe I’m back. I know Mickey’s gotta be freaking out. Not sure if I’ll remember anything about being an EMT. And I’d rather blow it off for a chance to see Mickey at the courthouse.”

“You’ll be fine. I can go to the courthouse.”

“Thanks, Carl. But you better go to school. It’s a closed session anyway. Hopefully, Mickey will call me right after with an update.”

Ian felt his phone vibrating. It was a text from Mandy. 

_What’s the emergency? Are you okay?_

_Yes,_ sorry, Ian texted back right away. _I was just panicking about Mickey’s hearing._

_Need me to get a message to him? I can at least text Dan._

_Thanks, Mandy. Please ask Dan to tell him that he’s gonna do great. And that I wish him the best._

_Okay. Will do. Fingers crossed._

A few minutes later, Ian and Carl got off at the stop near the EMT station. They exchanged a quick bro hug, Ian promising to keep Carl posted on anything regarding Mickey, and Carl telling Ian to “knock ‘em dead, except not like dead, dead, since you’ll be trying to save lives and all.” Ian just laughed and sent his little brother on his way.

As Ian walked towards the station, taking a deep breath and letting his lungs fill up with the frigid air, his thoughts turned to Mickey again. He wondered whether Mickey would find the notes Ian had written for the hearing and use them, or just wing it. What he’d give to be a fly on the wall of that courtroom.

It wasn’t much longer before Ian arrived outside the station and heard someone call out his name. He almost didn’t respond, used to being referred to as “Milkovich” or some other derivative of Mickey’s last name. 

“Ah, yes?” he replied, making eye contact with an older woman, who had a big smile, and brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. He glanced at her name tag and confirmed that she was indeed Rita. “Hello! It’s nice to see you. Again,” he added. 

“Glad you made it. Most of the crew is on their way back from a job. Let me give you the official tour and show you where your locker is,” Rita said cheerfully. “I see you packed your lunch.”

“Yes, I did,” Ian nodded, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with his new circumstances. He followed Rita inside and managed to tell her, “Thanks again for the opportunity.”

“I think you’ll fit in nicely,” she replied, pointing out the break area, the supply room, the bathrooms, and then the locker area. Rita pointed to a locker with the last name “Gallagher” scrawled in black letters on white tape. It was official. He belonged. Someone believed in him. At least two someones. “I’ll give you a minute to get settled, then you can come to my office to look over some paperwork for your benefits.”

“Sounds good, Rita.” Ian clicked open his locker and caught a glimpse of himself in the small mirror the previous owner had left behind. He knew his face very well, yet there was something different that he hadn’t noticed earlier that morning, something he hadn’t seen in months, maybe even years. Peace. 

Ian blinked back a few tears and stuffed his coat into his locker. He sat down on the bench to collect himself and turn his focus to the day ahead of him. Before putting his lunch box away, Ian couldn’t resist opening it, prepared to be amused by the contents. 

It was pretty standard fare and typical of what could be found in the Gallagher pantry on any given day—a PB&J on a hot dog bun, Vienna sausages (blech), half a sleeve of Ritz Crackers, a can of whole peaches in light syrup (but no can opener), and finally, a couple of mini-Twixes that looked like last year’s Halloween candy. Ian almost missed seeing the scrap of paper at the very bottom of the lunch bag, but he recognized Mickey’s handwriting immediately. As he scanned the words, something told him that maybe the universe was finally on their side. 

_You got this._

He folded the piece of paper and slid it into his pants pocket. 

* * *

**Mickey**

He figured Ian had showered the night before since he smelled halfway decent. Mickey decided he didn’t need another one. It’s not like he was going to dress up for court this time. No, they’d parade him into the courtroom in his orange jumpsuit, cuffed, and fitting the picture of another sorry-ass Milkovich thug. Over the course of his young life, Mickey had never been in a courtroom where the odds were in his favor. He hoped today was different.

Paulie covered for him while he studied Ian’s notes, bullet points, speech, monologue, whatever. He liked what Ian had written, at least the parts about Mickey coming from nothing and finally seeing a chance to turn things around. But he couldn’t stomach what he felt like was unnecessary groveling to Sammi and asking for forgiveness. There was lying out of necessity, but there was also not being a complete sell-out. Mickey was going to have to figure out how to strike a balance and still convince the judge he deserved a reduced sentence. 

Right before lunch time, a guard came to get Mickey from the laundry area. “Let’s go, Milkovich.”

Paulie gave him two thumbs before Mickey followed the guard to the front area of the prison for temporary external processing, which was the same humiliation as entry processing, because they had to make sure an inmate wasn’t going to pull any shit in transit or wherever the fuck they were going. 

As the guard performed the invasive inspection, Mickey couldn’t help uttering the words, “At least buy me dinner first...”

The guard, last name Jones, a guy probably in his early thirties and actually one of the guards Mickey didn’t mind as much, laughed at his comment. “All clear, Inmate Milkovich. Get dressed. Since you didn’t make it to the cafeteria for lunch, we have a fine boxed lunch for you to enjoy on the way to your hearing.”

“Gee, thanks.” Mickey figured his lunch would involve some kind of stale or moldy bread with peanut butter, if he was lucky. And then he remembered the lunch he’d packed for “Ian” to take to work. And that corny ass note he’d written. _Oh, fuck._ How fucking embarrassing. He couldn’t say what in the hell possessed him to write it, but maybe it would make Ian smile when he saw it.

The guard cuffed Mickey’s ankles and wrists and allowed him to carry his notes and his boxed lunch onto the van. The contents in the box included a day-old roll, a can of mini ravioli with a pop top and a juice box. How the fuck was he supposed to eat this shit in hand-cuffs?

Didn’t really matter. Mickey wasn’t all that hungry. He managed to get most of the roll down and finish the juice box. He’d save the ravioli for his victory celebration after the hearing. 

The drive to the courthouse would probably be an hour. At least the guard driving the van had decent taste in music—1980’s classic rock—and thank fuck he didn’t seem interested in having a conversation. Mickey leaned his head back, and closed his eyes, trying to picture Ian in his EMT uniform, maybe out on a job already.

He must have dozed off, longer than he intended, because he woke up to the voice of the guard telling him to “look alive” and “get ready to roll.” Mickey bolted upright, wanting to kick himself for not looking over Ian’s notes during the ride—a missed opportunity. He checked out his surroundings. The van was parked in the back of the courthouse, and the 80’s lovin’ guard was deep in conversation with two of the court bailiffs. Mickey found his notes on the seat next to him and scanned them quickly, flipping pages frantically, when he noticed in one of the margins, something that he’d missed before. Ian had scrawled a tiny note of encouragement to himself. _You got this._

 _What a pair of fucking saps_ , Mickey thought to himself, his smile fading as the van door flung open and the driver, plus the baliffs, hauled him outside and marched him inside one of the back doors. They took an elevator up to the third floor, chatting about some football shit, and escorted him to a windowless room. 

“Gonna uncuff your ankles. Lawyer’s on his way. No fucking around. Got it?” said one of the officers.

“Yeah, got it,” Mickey muttered in return.

The prison guard told the bailiffs he’d be back in a few hours and to radio him once “the inmate” was ready. Yep, Mickey was feeling at home now, back in his own body and used to being treated like he wasn’t an actual person. 

A few minutes later, a nerdy looking dude came into the room. Dan the man. Ian had described him as sort of tall and bland and probably in his forties. Mickey did everything he could not to picture this piece of shit fucking his sister, but hey, maybe he wasn’t a complete asshole since he was willing to help her criminal of a brother.

“How’s it going today?” Dan asked. “You ready, Mickey?”

“Think so. Guess I don’t have much choice.”

Dan smiled and reached over the table to pat his hand. Mickey flinched, but Dan pretended not to notice, or he didn’t care. “There’s a good chance things are gonna go our way. Your sister texted me to tell you she’s thinking about you. And your friend Ian wanted to wish you the best.”

 _Okay, Ian doesn’t need to be making any more goddamn wishes,_ Mickey decided. It was nice he’d reached out to Mandy to get a message to him.

Dan started talking a bunch of legal jargon, which Mickey was barely following, though he did like the sound of a negotiated plea bargain. Their conversation was cut short by a sharp knock on the door. One of the bailiffs came inside and announced that the judge was ready.

Everything was happening so fast, and Mickey could feel a heavy weight in his gut. His legs moved like lead, but he pushed forward, not wanting to blow this opportunity.

The bailiff took them to a larger room with wooden panels and a traditional courtroom set-up, but there was no one in the audience and just a few scattered court officers and a lawyer-looking dude for the State. Mickey and Dan took their seats at a small table on the left side, facing the judge’s bench.

Dan began whispering words of advice. “Stand up straight. Look the judge in the eye. Don’t be arrogant. Show respect. Everything we’ve talked about.”

Mickey nodded slowly, gulping as the announcement was made: “All rise for the honorable Judge Matthews.”

The judge was a middle-aged white woman with black-rimmed glasses. He’d never fared too well with female judges. Or male judges, for that matter. Dan put his hand on Mickey’s shoulder. “Don’t be nervous. Just say what you have to say.”

The judge took her seat and shuffled a few papers around before looking in the general direction of the mostly empty room. “In the matter of Mikhailo Milkovich versus the State of Illinois, we are here to determine whether the defendant should be resentenced due to negligence on the part of his representation. He has retained counsel and will undergo a series of questions I have prepared. I understand that both parties have agreed to this plan. If so, please confirm.”

The lawyer dude at the table across from them spoke up. “That is correct, your honor.” And then Dan said the same.

The judge nodded as the court reporter clacked away on his keyboard. Judge Matthews cleared her throat and finally turned to look Mickey directly in the eyes. He was ready. 

“Mr. Milkovich, I have reviewed the details surrounding your case, plea bargain, and sentencing. The court is aware that your public defender was engaged in illegal activities while he was representing you. Your attorney has worked to establish grounds for his representation to be declared insufficient. Rather than have a retrial, he has proposed a reduced sentencing. Do you agree that we proceed down this path?”

“Uh, yes. Yes, your honor,” Mickey said in a voice as respectful as he’d probably ever used in his life. 

“Very well. In addition to reviewing the circumstances from your prior sentencing, I have received notarized letters of commendation from your former business partners, Kevin and Veronica Ball. You co-managed their bar, correct?”

“Yes, your honor.” Mickey was almost speechless. That was really nice of Kev and V. They obviously hadn’t disclosed every detail about their former partnership. 

“I also have letters from the victim’s half siblings, Fiona and Phillip Gallagher. From what I read about the details in your case, the Gallagher family did not have a congenial relationship with Ms. Slott. While they speak highly of your character, I can only take their words with a grain of salt.”

Now Mickey really was speechless. Fiona and Lip had actually gone to all that trouble for him? Carl must have made it happen on the DL, because none of them had said a word. 

“Mr. Milkovich?”

Dan nudged his arm. 

“That is correct, your honor.” 

The judge had more questions. “And how did you happen to become involved with the family? And subsequently Ms. Slott?”

 _How did Mickey become involved with the Gallagher family?_ So many ways to answer. When did he become aware of his interest in Ian Gallagher was an even better question. Probably a lot earlier than Ian would have ever guessed. 

“Your honor, I dated Ian Gallagher, the third oldest Gallagher, off and on, since we were teenagers. He helped me through some tough times. I wanted to do the same for him when I found out he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.”

“And drugging Ms. Slott was helping him?” the judge asked sternly.

“No, your honor. That was more of a prank gone wrong. I mean, you can see from my rap sheet, a guy like me was probably heading down the wrong path. But there’s this window of time when I was trying to get my act together. For Ian. I was his caretaker. His partner,” Mickey explained. “And then Sammi, _Ms. Slott_ , turned him into the authorities for something he did when he was a manic seventeen year old. I’m Southside, your honor, and you just don’t do that to people, especially not your family.”

“I see. And is there more to this story, Mr. Milkovich?”

“Yes, your honor. It’s true that I wanted revenge on Ms. Slott, it’s true I gave her the drugs, and it’s true I panicked and stuffed her into a moving crate. I’m not proud of those things, but I never set out to kill her.”

The judge didn’t seem very moved. “You could have called the proper authorities, altered them to her condition.”

“Looking back, that’s exactly what I should have done. Or taken her to the emergency room,” said Mickey, not elaborating on the fact that he would have likely dumped her on the sidewalk outside of the emergency room. “It’s not an excuse, because I’m an adult, but if you know my history, you probably know my family. I come from a long line of folks who don’t make the best life choices. I was trying to change that, but my anger got the better of me. There’s a lot of things I should have done differently with that situation.”

“It’s nice to hear you say that, Mr. Milkovich, but you did plead guilty to the Class 1 felony charges.”

“Yes, your honor. I wasn’t counseled properly by Jonathan Wells. I didn’t even try to present my side of things. Thought it was a lost cause.”

Judge Matthews pulled her glasses off and set them down on her podium. “You’ve served nearly a year of your sentence already. What has changed for you? And what will be different should your sentence be reduced?” she asked him. 

“Well, you honor, after what happened with Ms. Slott, after everything that’s happened, I’ve learned about second chances. And redemption. I think I’d like to train as an EMT. Or something in the medical field.”

“I understand you recently earned your GED.”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Congratulations.” She looked away from Mickey and addressed the entire court, “I think I’ve heard enough.”

Dan interjected, “Your honor? My client would like to share a formal statement.”

“That won’t be necessary. We’ll take a 15 minute recess, and I’ll return with my decision.” The judge banged her gavel and returned to her chambers. 

Mickey flopped down in his seat, completely exhausted after that grilling. He looked over at Dan. “Guess that means I’m fucked, huh?” 

“Not necessarily. You were sincere and honest. Now we just wait.”

_We wait._

* * *

**Ian**

The morning passed by quickly. Ian completed a few online orientation courses and reviewed the contents of the rig with Sue and some of his new co-workers. They’d gotten a call around noon, so he’d tagged along in the back of the ambulance, adrenaline up, feeling the excitement of his first official call, hoping no one was seriously injured.

It was an MVA they were responding to. Head on collision, but fortunately, the airbags for both vehicles had deployed. The woman who was more severely injured had minor contusions and a possible broken leg. Ian helped wrap her leg with oversight from Rita, and they transported her to the closest hospital. 

The team didn’t get back to the station until after 3 o’clock. Ian was eating his lunch when a call from an unknown number came through. This was it. He dropped his sandwich onto his napkin and scooted backwards in his chair, holding onto his phone like it was a lifeline. “I gotta take this,” he told Rita and his co-worker Woody. “It’s my...boyfriend. He’s got some news to share.”

“Hello?” Ian answered the call before he made it out of the station, but his feet were still carrying him forward and outside. 

“Fuck me! Can you believe this shit? Are you at work? It’s Mickey.”

Ian laughed, almost in disbelief, a swelling feeling in his chest making it hard for him to breathe. Mickey sounded like his old self. Did he have good news or bad news? “Yeah, I know who this is. And yeah, I’m at work.” Ian sat down on the curb to brace himself for whatever Mickey was about to share. “You at the courthouse?”

“Yeah, just finished with the judge. Grueling man. Thought I might shit myself.”

“Mick,” he gasped. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to finish things. Like I planned. I don’t know what happened last night, but—”

“Cool it, man. Can’t talk long. Dan let me borrow his phone, and he’s talking to the bailiff while I take a leak. You ready?”

“Yes!” Ian shouted. “Tell me.” _Please tell me it’s good news. Please tell me it’s good news._

“Okay. So Dan negotiated a new plea. Class 4 felony, instead of a Class 1. It’ll still be on my record, but I’ll be out of here in a year or less.”

 _A year. Or less._ Ian let out the breath he’d been holding in, a lightness spreading through him, and he probably would have started jumping up and down had he not spotted his co-worker June outside on a smoke break, giving him a weird look already.

“Yo, Gallagher. Did you hear me? A year! Not fifteen, not eight. A year. Thank fuck…”

“Fuck, Mick, that’s great news,” Ian croaked, knowing he was going to start bawling after they hung up. “It’ll fly by, and I’m coming to see you tomorrow. I told Rita about needing to have off on Wednesdays and Saturdays. She’s gonna help me out when she can. I love you, Mick.”

“Fuckin’ love you, too.” Mickey sounded like he might be on the verge of tears. “Now go save some lives. Proud of you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Finally. _Fucking finally._ Something had gone their way. And they’d made it happen. Together. Ian pressed his phone to his cheek, the very phone Mickey had used the day before to call him. 

Ian finally allowed himself to let go, to feel how much he’d missed Mickey, how much he’d wanted to be with him. It used to be that he couldn’t go down that path without feeling like his life was spiraling out of control, but now, things were falling into place, and Ian was going to do everything in his power to be with Mickey every step of the way.


	23. Ian & Mickey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here it is...the final chapter. I had a blast writing the body swap elements of this fic, but more than anything, I wanted to explore both perspectives of our beloved boys in Season 6. And of course, get them together much sooner than canon.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with this story and for all of the kudos and comments!

**Ian**

The last time Ian had been to the prison on the visitor side of the glass was when he’d hitched a ride with Svetlana. He’d sat in the back seat with Yev, reading books to him and trying to focus on anything other than the fear that was gripping his insides, the fear of what to do and how to tell Mickey things needed to be over for both of their sakes. 

Only he hadn’t had the balls to do it—not outright. And looking back on that last conversation, maybe his way had been crueler.

_Will you wait? Fucking lie if you have to, man._

_Yeah, Mickey, I’ll wait._

Was it a lie? When he’d said that? Did he wait? The obvious answer would be “no.” Ian didn’t go back to see Mickey. He started dating Caleb. But below the surface, anyone who knew Ian, even Ian himself knew that he’d never let go of Mickey. There would always be some part of him holding on, as much as he thought that it was better to let go. In other words, he would always be waiting.

Now they were past the darker times. Their lives had been shaken up, pretty much like the tilt-o-whirl at the carnival, but they’d come out of it better, having taken care of each other in ways neither of them could have imagined and refusing to back down from the challenge. The toughest part of the marathon was over, and the finish line was in clear sight.

So why did Ian feel like there was an elephant sitting on his chest as the prison guard patted him down? Why did his mouth go dry and his palms begin to sweat as he was directed to booth number three? Was it being back in this place and coming to terms with a previous version of himself, the one who’d hurt Mickey in an effort to make his life better by being absent from it?

Somehow, almost magically, as soon as Mickey took a seat across from him and gave Ian this look of both relief and reassurance, he could breathe again. He could talk again. Hell, he could smile again. And he did. Like the world’s biggest dork. 

It must have been contagious—Mickey was smiling right back at him as he spoke into the receiver, “You made it.”

“Was there any doubt?” Ian asked, biting into his lip and fidgeting in his seat.

“No,” Mickey responded. “Figured you’d be here unless you had to work.”

Ian was glad to hear Mickey say that. He didn’t want his boyfriend to ever doubt his intentions again. “So...here we are. Weird, huh?”

”Doesn’t have to be. How was your first day on the job?”

Ian relaxed his shoulders, grateful to Mickey for keeping things easy, like they were having a regular conversation. Like they hadn’t just spent the past few months in some kind of warped reality. “It was great. Thanks for getting me the gig.”

“Had to do something to kill time.” Mickey shrugged like it was nothing, but Ian could tell he appreciated the praise.

And then they were staring at each other. Ian felt Mickey’s eyes raking over him, and he was taking Mickey in, the real Mickey. This felt right. Everything was almost back how it was supposed to be, and Mickey was no longer facing years and years of an unjust sentence. 

“Tell me about the hearing. Sounds like you did pretty good.”

“Yeah, guess I did. Might have helped, you know, having someone...who was fighting for me.” Mickey smiled briefly and then turned, glancing over his right shoulder. “Wave to Paulie.”

Ian was pulled out of his trance for the moment, not really wanting to take his eyes off of Mickey, but he complied, shifting his eyes to a familiar figure who was seated behind Mickey in another booth. Paulie waved to him and winked. 

“Says he’s gonna add you to his list of visitors,” Mickey said.

“Really?” Ian laughed fondly. “I’ll be sure to drop some money in his commissary. Damon’s, too.”

“That’s nice and all, but don’t forget about mine,” Mickey said with his eyebrows raised.

“‘Course I won’t,” Ian promised. “And I’ll have to visit Paulie sometime. I’m gonna miss our talks.”

“I think he wants to make sure your intentions are pure.”

“Ha!” Ian pulled the receiver closer to his lips and whispered, “Some of them are not so pure.”

“Fuck, don’t do that to me,” groaned Mickey.

“Hey, at least you got your hands on it. More than once, I’m assuming?”

“Fuck you. Like you’re so irresistible or some shit.”

Ian smiled. They both knew that Mickey really did think Ian was entirely, 100% irresistible. “Are you getting used to being back in your own body?”

“Fits like a glove,” Mickey said, stretching his arms above his head. Then he grew quiet, serious, pausing briefly before he spoke. 

“You look good.” 

_Those words._ The way Mickey was looking at him, expectant, hopeful. Ian had fucked up the last time Mickey had said that, many months ago, returning his kind words by staring back at him with vacant eyes. This time, it was going to be different.

Ian searched Mickey’s eyes to see if he, too, was remembering that painful conversation. It was hard to tell. “You took good care of me, Mick. Kept me in shape.” Ian watched as Mickey’s face relaxed, like he was realizing that the scary movie he was watching just might have a happy ending. 

“Well,” he smirked slightly, “You, on the other hand, coulda spent more time lifting weights and less time studying.”

“Is that so? ‘Cause I think you look great. And I got a real kick out of being all compact and shit.”

“Fuck you, man.”

“What? I fit in places much easier.”

“Yeah? I know exactly where you’re gonna want to fit in.”

This was good. They were both relaxed now. “Can’t argue with that,” Ian replied, grinning, then pointing in the direction of Mickey’s chest. “Think you’ll get any more tattoos? Looks like the last one finally healed.”

Mickey nodded slowly, seemingly aware of why Ian had asked him about the tattoo. “Yeah, well...it hurt like a son of a bitch.” He pulled the collar of his uniform down until it was visible. 

Ian grimaced. “Don’t think I mentioned it before, but Gallagher's spelled with an ‘h’ after the ‘g.’”

Mickey didn’t miss a beat. “Naw, this is for a different Ian. That’s how _he_ spells it.”

Ian laughed, but instead of trying to mask his feelings for the gesture, like he had the last time, he told Mickey what he really thought. “Can’t believe you did it. I like it.”

“Yeah, well. Been thinking about you.” Mickey paused, like he was trying to check in with Ian if it was okay for them to keep reliving this memory. Ian nodded for Mickey to continue. “You ever think of me?”

“All the time,” Ian admitted.

“Gonna wait for me?”

“12 months, huh?”

“Yeah, but I'll be out in three to six with overcrowding, so…”

“I can wait longer,” Ian said quickly. “15 years if you need me to.”

“Naw. Wouldn’t ask you to wait that long. Wouldn’t be fair.”

“I’d do it,” Ian insisted, speaking with conviction, like he knew he should have done before. If only he could have back then, if only he didn’t feel like he was drowning and pulling Mickey down with him.

“Thank fuck you don’t have to,” Mickey reminded him. 

“True, but something tells me, you would have found a way to get to me sooner,” Ian grinned. 

“Yeah, but it’s better this way…”

“I’m not gonna leave you this time, Mick,” Ian said softly. 

“I know,” Mickey replied. 

The buzzer sounded. 

_Game on._

_^^^^^^^^^^_

_Six months later…_

**Mickey**

The air was warm and smelled like cotton candy and popcorn, the same as Mickey remembered from the last he’d hit the carnival. Sure, the overly upbeat acordian music was annoying, but who gave a fuck? _This_ was what freedom felt like. Freedom to be walking around in public, on a date, next to the person you care about more than anything in the world. And said person, feeling just as happy and free, is taking it upon himself to grab your hand. And you don’t let go.

“Feels nice, right?” Ian said, fingers loosely intertwined with Mickey’s.

“Feels fuckin’ weird, but we’ll go with _nice_.” 

“Want me to let go?”

“No.” Mickey kind of liked everyone knowing that he and Ian were together. There was a time, not so long ago, when he figured he’d never have this kind of freedom with Ian. And after all the shit they’d been through to get here, he dared anyone to open their fucking mouths. 

They were headed towards the game section of the carnival, because why not tempt fate and pay a visit to the famous wish machine? Maybe it was Mickey’s turn to make a wish. _Or maybe not_ , Mickey agreed silently with himself. 

Carl was a few paces in front of them and turned around to wave. He was with _his_ date, some chick he’d met at a tamale stand. Anne. So officially, Mickey figured they were on a double date. Another first.

“I see a lot of tamales in our future,” noted Ian, waving back at Carl and Anne before they took off towards the Ferris Wheel. They’d all agreed to meet up later for the fireworks show.

“Glad we could do this, Mick.”

“And I’m glad I don’t have to squeeze you giant ass legs into any of these rides.”

“At least I’m tall enough to ride every ride,” Ian shot back, his expression softening as they passed by a mini roller coaster. “Maybe we can bring Yev here sometime. If you want to, I mean—”

“Maybe,” Mickey offered. He still needed time. Time to adjust to being back on the outside, time to get his shit together, time with Ian. Just him and Ian.

Changing the subject, Ian asked him, “You send in your paperwork for the EMT program?”

“Yes, quit naggin’ me,” Mickey warned, knowing that his boyfriend was asking out of support and concern. He didn’t actually mind. “Thanks for checking.”

Mickey was working with his parole officer to qualify for an EMT training program for newly released felons. In the meantime, Lip’s former professor had managed to score him a job at the university library, shelving books. 

Fuck, Mickey couldn’t wait to get away from those dumbass college asswipes, but the work was calming. Boring. Just what he needed. And Ian would bring lunch for them when he had a day off from his EMT job. They'd eat outside and talk shit about all the idiot kids around them, though they were pretty much the same age and maybe both just a little envious of the life they thought they’d never have. And the life that Lip had pissed away. At least the fucker was in AA and mildly content, working in a bike shop and banging some waitress from Fiona’s diner.

It had been two months since Mickey got out of prison—early release—just like he’d predicted. Ian was more than happy to have him move into his private bedroom at the Gallagher house. He’d become part of the family within a few weeks but managed to stay out of the various Gallagher feuds. Unless Ian needed him.

Mickey had yet to set foot inside the Milkovich house and refused to do so as long as Terry was there—he had nothing to say to the fucker. Instead, Mickey would meet up with Iggy at the Alibi now and again. His brother tried to pull him into a couple of runs, but Mickey was done with that shit.

He and Ian had gone out for coffee with Mandy a handful of times, too. It felt weird. Weird but good. Weird because it was like old times, like the summer before Mickey had gone back to juvie to keep himself from killing Frank. Okay, so maybe not _exactly_ like old times because the three of them were carrying much heavier baggage now. But good because being together made things a little bit lighter. 

Ian squeezed Mickey’s hand as some kids with balloons ran in front of them. “You okay? Why so quiet?”

“No reason.” Mickey gripped Ian’s fingers tighter as they passed by the game booth where he remembered asking some chatty dude about the wish machine. But the guy wasn’t at his post tonight—some woman was there instead.

As they got closer to the game area, Mickey began scanning all of the machines, realizing he was anxious about coming face-to-face with the all powerful animatronic Fairy Godmother—if that other old geezer had ever been able to get her up and running.

Ian let out a barely audible gasp and stopped in his tracks. Mickey’s eyes finally landed on what had to be the machine.

“That it?”

“Yeah, that’s it. _Fuck_ ,” breathed Ian. 

Mickey moved them closer for a good look. No one else was around for the moment, so they had the machine all to themselves. The marquee lights around the outer frame were flashing, and the words “Your Fairy Godmother” were glowing in blue letters. Inside the machine was the top half of a gray-haired, plump figure. She was holding a wand and smiling vaguely into the distance, just waiting for someone to bring her to life with a few quarters. Mickey pulled his hand from Ian’s and reached into his pocket. 

“Don’t,” Ian said sternly, grabbing a hold of his arm. 

“What?” Mickey asked. “Just reaching for my phone. Wanna take a picture.”

“Oh,” Ian replied, very much relieved and still gawking at the machine.

They stood there for a few minutes, both speechless, Mickey snapping a few pics. He was actually dying to give the thing a whirl, but he could tell that would be too traumatic for Ian. And maybe not the wisest decision for the time being.

“So...you put the quarters in here,” Mickey pointed to the open slot, “and then what? Do you remember?”

“Yeah.” Ian sighed and closed his eyes before answering. “I made a wish. Something lame. And the Fairy Godmother robot lady didn’t believe me. Asked me for my _true_ wish or some shit. And that’s when I thought of you and said the thing I said.”

“Which is when I was as high as a kite and said what I said.”

Ian nodded. “I remember she said ‘your wish is granted’ right before the machine malfunctioned. The whole thing was bizarre, like she could read my mind, and then...presto change-o! I was you.”

“Sometime during the night, huh?” Mickey added, remembering that first morning waking up in Ian’s body next to the smooth-talker. “Freaky shit, huh? But now that we’ve seen it, guess we can move on. You hungry? I’m buying.”

“Yeah, Mick. Yeah. I am hungry. And I guess there’s no point in dwelling on it. We’re here now. You’re here now. Might as well—”

“Howdy, fellas,” said an older man’s voice from behind them. Mickey and Ian turned around to face two grey-haired geezers, both of whom Mickey recognized from the time he’d come to look for the machine before. One was the guy from the guessing game booth, Earl, and the other was the guy in charge of repairs, Harold.

“Hello,” Ian said cautiously, which kept Mickey from blurting out, “I know you!” He, in fact, did know them, but he’d met them as Ian.

“I remember you,” said Harold, addressing Ian. “You wanted to know about the Fairy Godmother wish machine.”

Mickey poked Ian’s side to respond.

“Uh, yes. Yes, I did.”

“Well, she’s good as new,” Harold declared and proceeded to walk past them with Earl right behind him. He patted the side of the machine. “Wanna give her a try?”

When Ian didn’t respond, Earl spoke up. “That or we can go over to my game. I can guess your height or weight or age. If I’m wrong, you can win a prize for your best gal.” He nudged Ian’s arm playfully.

“Best gal, huh? Yeah, that would be me, buddy,” Mickey shot back. 

“Okay, sorry,” said Earl, his belly shaking as he chuckled. “Didn’t know. And it sure don’t matter. Harold and me, we’ve been together for years.”

“That’s great,” interjected Ian. “Well, nice to see you again. Guess we’ll be moving on.”

“No more wishes then?” Harold asked, lifting his baseball cap to scratch at his forehead. 

“Think we’re good for now,” Mickey replied. 

“So you got things worked out? Seemed pretty upset when you came here the last time,” noted Harold.

“Yeah, everything’s good,” Ian answered, giving Mickey a knowing smile.

“Glad to hear it. I told you it would be. You see, every wish has an expiration. For Cinderella, it was midnight. She had her window of time to make things happen. For others, who knows?”

“Yeah. Sure, Mister,” Mickey said suspiciously, starting to wonder if Harold and Earl somehow knew what had happened.

“Well, it’s here if you ever need it again,” said Harold. “You boys have a good time.”

“Thanks,” Ian nodded and pulled on Mickey’s arm. “Let’s get something to eat.”

Mickey waited until they were several feet away from their new friends to comment, “Nosy bastards.”

Ian laughed as he put his arm around Mickey’s shoulders, briefly, to give him a quick peck on his temple. “Nah, they were nice. Could be us one day, a couple of old timers, just enjoying being together and meddling in other people’s business.”

“Yeah, fuck no,” said Mickey, glancing over his shoulder at the two men who were standing by the machine, deep in conversation. “Well, maybe the ‘enjoying being together’ part. That’s possible.”

“Very generous of you, Mick. I think it’s safe to say that we know each other through and through. Pretty easy to enjoy being with you.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Corny motherfucker. Shut the hell up and let me buy you a funnel cake.”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

“But I ain’t feeding it to you,” Mickey informed him, though both of them knew that had Ian asked him to, Mickey very well may have complied.

After buying two funnel cakes and a lemonade to share between them, they parked it on a nearby bench to stuff their faces. Ian was making sex noises while he ate, which almost distracted Mickey from spotting some poor bastard, far in the distance, digging in his pocket for change while standing in front of the Fairy Godmother machine. 

He thought about saying something to Ian, but the redhead was rambling on about prison food being the real travesty of life behind bars. Mickey wondered if he should go warn the curly-haired stranger to be careful about what he wished for.

 _Nah,_ Mickey decided, turning to Ian and chuckling at the dusting of powdered sugar all over his boyfriend’s mouth. _Who am I to stand in the way of someone getting everything he’s ever wished for?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can’t believe this took me almost a year. Major thanks to whaticameherefor, a most fabulous beta, and thanks for the encouragement from several of my favorites in the fandom!
> 
> ***** For those of you who can vote in the USA, I’m hoping you have voted/will vote for candidates that do not stand for hate, bigotry, homophobia, and racism. Please make your voices heard this Tuesday! *****

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to whaticameherefor and azuresky18 for making sure I’m not too far out in left field but far enough! ;)


End file.
